From Their Own Lands
by Ziva- Zia- Z
Summary: The roots of their heritage stemmed much deeper than anyone had ever thought. When Tim and Sarah find a diary tucked away in their father's things after his death, they have no idea the depths of revolution steeped in their blood, or the ancestors who call for them to return to a land torn apart by violence and death, a land that cries to one day become whole again. Est. McGiva.
1. Chapter 1

**From Their Own Lands**

 **Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **Summary: The roots of their heritage stemmed much deeper than anyone had ever thought. When Tim and Sarah find a diary tucked away in their father's things after his death, they have no idea the depths of revolution steeped in their blood, or the ancestors who call for them to return to a land torn apart by violence and death, a land that cries to one day become whole again. Established McGiva.**

 **A/N: John's death is moved up in this, to fit the story timeline better. Written: 2006.- Licia**

 _2007_

"I don't want to have to do this, Timmy. Can't we just wait and work on it tomorrow? Then you're team can help us, too. What's so important about getting a head start anyway?"

" _'t's wha'_ your father would _'ave_ wanted."

The siblings looked up as their mother entered the room, an empty box in her hands. She set it on the desk, brushing a strand of dark red hair out of her eyes with a puff of her cheeks. At the tender age of forty-five, Kathleen McGee, nee O'Brien, looked no older than her mid-twenties, despite the fact that she'd had two children by the time she'd turned twenty. Her big green eyes- the same eyes her children possessed- quickly scanned their faces before darting around the small study.

" _'lot o'_ memories in this room."

"A lot of memories in this _house_." Sarah amended, letting her gaze wander as her brother shifted through papers on their father's desk. A week had passed since John McGee's passing from cancer, and the remaining family had scrambled to get everything sorted through and dealt with. They wouldn't be in such a rush if the house hadn't been up for sale, for Kathleen was returning to her native Ireland.

" _Bu'_ even more in Dublin." Sarah turned to her mother, who reached out, gently taking her daughter's chin in her hand. Both John and Kathleen had been born and raised in Ireland- John in the violent-torn North, Kathleen in the free South- and the pair had met as teenagers at an Arts Festival in seventy-nine in the South. The two had struck up a wary friendship over the two-week long festival, until they let one night get away from them; Timothy had been born six months after John and Kathleen had gotten married.

To say it was a marriage built on love was hardly believable- at first. Though Kathleen would be the first to admit that her son had made it easier to love the man who'd fathered him, there _had_ been days when she'd had her doubts. But John had proved to be a good provider, husband and father over the years- until he joined the American Navy.

And then... things had turned... sour, to say the least.

"There are days when I _forge' 'e's_ gone." Kathleen whispered, picking up a framed photograph sitting on the desk- one of them together not long after Sarah had been born. " _Despi'e 'is_ faults, John was a _goo'_ man. No _matt'r wha' eith'r o'_ you think, your _fath'r_ was a _goo'_ man. And he loved you both dearly."

The siblings shared a glance, but kept quiet. They knew the stories, of how their parents had met, of how, after discovering she was pregnant, their parents had pushed them into marriage, and how the first few years were filled with arguments, rants and raves and threats of divorce, for they were only teenagers after all. Young adults, really. They also knew of the fierce loyalty the two held for each other... loyalty Kathleen still held towards her now deceased husband.

"How did you make it work? You were from separate countries, surely-"

"They are _no' sep'rate_ countries, Sarah Aileen. _'tis_ one country, split in two by the bloody _Engl'sh_." Sarah glanced at her brother and her mother's soft growl as she set the photograph down. "We managed. As any young couple would. _Kep'_ a roof _ov'r_ your heads, _an'_ ours, _an'_ food on _th'_ table _an'_ in your bellies, or _'ave_ you _forgo'en_?"

"No, _Mams_." Sarah whispered, blushing. The siblings both had been born in Ireland, in their small corner of Dublin. And though they'd spent the first ten years or so of their lives in Ireland, eventually, the family had moved to America due to John's work with the Navy. The joys of their grandmother, Penelope Langston, having been born in America.

"Maybe you _canna_ talk Ziva _int' 'elping,_ Tim."

The young agent stopped sorting papers, gaze slowly rising to meet his mother's. "For that matter, _Mams_ , let's just invite the entire team."

The raised eyebrow Kathleen awarded her oldest affected him little. The Irish beauty quite liked the Israeli her son had gotten involved with, and she hoped that an engagement would someday be in their future, for she felt Ziva would make the perfect daughter-in-law. She brought Tim out of his shell when required, and he reigned her in. They were complete opposites, but the kind that worked well together. The kind Kathleen had wished she and John had been. Considering they'd only been dating a little over three years, Kathleen felt she was being patient, allowing her son and his girlfriend time before she pushed for marriage and grandchildren. Though at this rate...

"Hey _Mams_?" Broken from her thoughts, Kathleen turned her gaze towards her son, who was pulling something out of the bottom of a buried desk drawer. Papers scattered to the floor, but the three McGee family members paid them no mind, as all eyes turned to the object in Tim's hand. "What's this?"

Her gaze flicked from the drawer to the small, leather-bound book in her son's grasp. "I... I _dinna_ know."


	2. Chapter 2

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

"It looks like it's some sort of... book."

Silently, Kathleen opened it, flipping through the pages, her eyes scanning for anything that told her of what it was or where it'd come from. The leather, though old, was still soft in her hands, and the pages were tinged yellow at the edges, the rest of the pages a soft, clean white. She stopped, the book falling open to the black ribbon in the middle.

Her gaze flicked over the date.

 _"Twenty-four April, nineteen-hundred-and-sixteen."_

Tim and Sarah looked up from their quiet conversation as their mother took a seat on the sofa. "What'd you say, _Mams_?"

"Nineteen-sixteen."

A quick glance passing between them, the siblings moved away from the desk, taking seats on either side of their mother. Her gaze scanned over the writing. "I think... it's a diary."

Tim furrowed a brow, reaching for the book. Kathleen shut it softly and laid it in his hand, allowing him to take it. Gently, he opened it to the first page, drinking in the signature. " _'The property of Timothy O'Shea, in the Year of Our Lord, nineteen-hundred-and-fifteen._ "

"Who's Timothy O'Shea?" Sarah asked, wrinkling her nose.

Kathleen glanced at her son briefly before getting up and making her way towards a bookcase across the study. She let her gaze rummage over the books and folders, before finding what she was looking for and pulling it out. A manila folder, stuffed to the brim with papers and the like. As she returned to settle between her children, she spoke up,

 _"Me_ family is O'Shea. You know _tha'_ , I know you both know _tha'. An',_ if I'm _corr'ct_ , any Timothy O'Shea _woul'_ be within these." She opened the folder, flicking through countless papers and notes until she pulled something up. Quickly unfolding it, the siblings were only mildly surprised to find it was a family tree, drawn out on a good-sized sheet of folded paper. Her green eyes quickly scanned the names, before she folded it several times, leaving the area she was looking at out. "Look." She pointed to a name, and the kids leaned closer to look over her shoulder. "There."

"Timothy Michael O'Shea. First September eighteen-ninety-two to-" Tim leaned closer, eyes widening. "Wait... does that say... fourteen May _nineteen-sixteen_?"

Kathleen nodded. _"Ye 'member_ your _hist'ry, righ',_ loves?" She looked between her children. " _Wha' 'appened_ in nineteen-sixteen?"

"Easter Rising." Their breathy whispers were quickly followed by silence as the two- both devout Irish Catholics from the time they were old enough to grasp the concept of a Catholic- quickly crossed themselves. It was a well-known fact the importance of the Rebellion that had taken place in Dublin on that fateful week of Easter, nineteen-sixteen. It was the first major uprising of the twentieth century, the first real show of Irish fighting back against the British since the rebellion of seventeen-ninety-eight.

"If... if I were _t' vent're_ a guess," She spoke slowly, gathering her thoughts, and turned to the book in Tim's grasp. "I'd say _tha'..._ this _littl'_ book..." Carefully, tenderly, she removed the book, setting the family tree down and turning a page. "Is a record _o'_ our family's _partic'pation_ in the rebellion _'gainst 'ngland_." She drank in the neat, slightly slanted script. The first date within the book was nineteen-fifteen, the day being that of June eighteenth. Her voice was soft as she began to read the words written out by one of her very own ancestors- a great-grandfather, or great-granduncle if she remembered correctly, but she couldn't exactly remember which.

" _'I am no' quite sure what exactly t' do with a small, leather-bound book of blank paper such as this. But seeing as Kit had given me this las' year f'r me birthday... well, the only thing I canna think t' do with such a book is t' keep a record o' me life. I told 'er las' year tha' a book such as this 'twas useless an' a waste o' paper f'r someone like me, bu' she insisted. An' bein' me fav'rite sister, who am I t' turn down such a gif'?'_ "

Sarah's gaze quickly moved to the family tree she'd taken from her mother's lap. Her gaze quickly scanned over the section of the family, and she reached over, gently tugging on her mother's sleeve. "Look." Tim and Kathleen leaned close. "There were four children- Fiona, Aileen, Timothy and Sarah. But... but I don't see a Kit."

Tim reached across his mother for the tree. "Kit's a nickname. It's short for Katherine." Sarah handed the tree over and he quickly scanned it. "There. Sarah Katherine. She was a year younger than Timothy... these kids are all right straight in a row, one right after the other-"

" _No'_ uncommon, especially back then." Kathleen replied, studying the names on the paper in her son's grasp. She had very vague memories of her grandfather mentioning an 'Aunt Kit', who had been active in the fight for Irish freedom, and how all three of her grandfather's aunts had had a hand in the fight for not only Irish freedom, but Irish independence and the civil war that followed. A moment passed, before she glanced between her children; she had known only vaguely of the two family members she had chosen to name her children after- that they'd supported the fight to free Ireland from English rule, and that they'd struck out on their own when still young, unaware of what side of history they would find themselves on.

She _knew_ that her grandfather had been Timothy Michael's son, that he had married a young woman from Belfast named Zipporah, but who had been called Zippi, and that their marriage had at first been frowned upon because she was not of the Catholic faith. She also knew that Zippi- from what her grandfather had told her- had borne Timothy Michael three children before becoming a widow, but the nature of his death had been shrouded in mystery. But if this was her great-grandfather's diary, one question still remained to tug at her mind-

What was it doing in John's belongings?


	3. Chapter 3

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

She was itching to continue reading, but a quick glance at the clock told her that they'd wasted enough time already; it was nearly nine in the evening. "Come, we can finish up _t'morrow_." She took the family tree back from her son and folded it carefully before placing it back in the folder. " _An'_ Tim, I'd _sugges' askin'_ your team _t' 'elp t'morrow."_

He nodded, gaze darting to the book in her lap. A moment passed, before she closed the book and held it out. "Go on, maybe you can glean more than I can."

Her son grinned, before gently accepting the book and leaning over to press a kiss to her cheek. "Thank you, _Mams_. I'll let you know what I find." She nodded as he stood, Sarah following. A moment passed, before she also stood and followed her kids to the front door. After kissing them both goodnight, she shut the door softly behind them and leaned against it, hugging herself.

"Oh, John, _wha' secr'ts_ were _ye 'iding, me_ love?"

The siblings parted ways, and eventually, Tim shut the door to his apartment, attention held on the journal- for this was clearly a journal. But a noise coming from the back bedroom caused him to look up; he set the book down, pulling out his gun and skulking silently to the bedroom-

"Tim?"

A sigh escaped his throat as he found himself face to face with Ziva, the young Mossad agent assigned to Gibbs's team. Born in eighty-two, she was a year younger than Sarah, who'd been born in eighty-one, and had found a kinship with the younger McGee. Known for being cold and almost heartless, Ziva was anything but around Tim; she was warm and affectionate- something that confused and almost frightened Tony to no end. "What are you doing here, Zi?"

She furrowed a brow, running a hand through her unruly curls, noting the appreciative glance that Tim gave her, his green eyes roving over her small body, clad in only a tank and her underwear. "I live here. Or did you forget we share this apartment?"

"Right." He sighed, turning and shuffling back to where he'd set the diary and slipping his gun back into the holster before grabbing the book and going into the kitchen.

"Tim? Are you okay?"

He seemed to ignore her as he fixed a cup of coffee, and she followed, watching her boyfriend intently. Her gaze landed on the book he set on the counter, and silently, she crept towards him, reaching out and grabbing the book once she got close. What startled her was how fast Tim turned around, grabbing her wrist and stopping her from picking it up. "Don't, Zi."

"I just want to know what it is."

He met her gaze. "It's..." He bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. "Something to do with my family."

"Something to do with the McGees?" She asked, hopping onto an unoccupied part of the counter, watching as he fixed a cup of coffee. He shook his head.

"No, the O'Sheas."

"Who are the-"

"My mother's side of the family."

"Oh." She nodded slowly. "Where did you find it?"

He turned to her. "Surprisingly? In my father's desk in his study."

"Why is that surprising?"

His gaze flicked to the book as he took a sip. "Because if my mother is correct, then this belonged to my great-great-" He stopped, counting quickly in his head. "Yeah, my and Sarah's great-great-grandfather and his sisters."

"That's great, Tim." She reached out, taking the cup from him and taking a sip. "Do you know much about the O'Sheas?"

"We know next to nothing. At least... nothing about the generations before my grandparents." He took the cup back. "The O'Sheas are... private, for lack of a better word. They don't air their dirty laundry or involve others in their affairs. Which makes me wonder how my mother survived being one growing up."

"What do you mean?" Ziva furrowed a brow, confused, as she took the cup back and took another sip.

"You've met _Mams._ She's not exactly... quiet about certain things. And she's never been one for propriety. She got pregnant with me after she and Dad slept together at a festival and then got married three months into the pregnancy. From what she's told me, she wasn't exactly shy about hiding the fact that she was pregnant at seventeen. She seemed to relish that other people knew, even after the wedding, regardless of whether she was embarrassing my grandparents or not."

The Israeli chuckled; she remembered first meeting Kathleen. The older woman had studied her intently for all of five minutes before pulling her into a hug and kissing her cheek. She'd then proceeded to tell Ziva that she was so looking forward to the day they finally got married, and that she hoped the marriage would be blessed with lots and lots of grandchildren she could spoil- something that clearly embarrassed Tim to no end. She also hadn't been shy about her thoughts on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and how it seemed so insignificant in terms of the great, wide world, and that in the end, it was just land the two countries were fighting over, not the very freedoms of a people, like the Irish had been fighting the British over for decades.

After a moment, Ziva picked the book up, thumbing through it gently as she chose her next words carefully. "So this... journal?" Tim nodded. "What... what does it tell the story of? Or... who, for that matter?"

Tim set his cup down and took the diary from her, thumbing through the pages in silence for several minutes. He shook his head, gaze scanning through the neatly kept handwriting, the crisp dates and smooth pages. "I have an idea, but I could be entirely wrong."

"Tell me." She kicked her feet. "Even a wrong guess is better than no guess, Tim."

He finished the last of his coffee and set the cup in the sink, before setting the book down, placing a hand on either side of Ziva's hips, pinning her in place. "Timothy."

"You do not have to... what is that saying? Refer to yourself in the second person?"

"Third person." He corrected. "And I'm not." He picked up the book, holding it open to the first page. "I'm talking about the first Timothy, the one I'm guessing I'm named after." She read the name silently to herself, lips forming over each syllable like the softest of kisses. "Timothy Michael O'Shea, born eighteen-ninety-two, died nineteen-sixteen."


	4. Chapter 4

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

 _"Come, Mrs. O'Shea! Tha's it! An'ther strong push!"_

 _A scream pierced the air, and she sat up straighter. The pain that radiated from between her legs was slowly growing, moving further up her body, twisting and throbbing with each pulse, each beat of her heart. She gripped tight to the other woman's hand, digging her nails into the soft flesh, in the hopes that maybe the pain would ease._

 _How dare her husband leave her at this most important of times. How dare he miss this, the impending birth of their child. How dare he up and die the day she needed him most. Even though he would most likely have been forced to wait out in the hall, just knowing he would still be there would have been enough of a comfort- a comfort she desperately needed at this time._

 _"Push, Mrs. O'Shea!"_

 _"I can'!"_

 _"Aye, you can. You're doin' fine, Zippi. Jus' fine."_

 _She turned her dark gaze up, towards the oldest O'Shea daughter, since married to an Éamon Phillips- a young newspaper man who kept tight watch on the budding revolution and talk of war for independence. The older woman smiled down at her, leaning close to whisper in her ear,_

 _"'tis almos' ov'r. Me brother, 'e is so proud o' you."_

 _"One more push, Mrs. O'Shea!"_

 _The young woman bore down, letting out a cry as the infant finally left her body, it's screams the sweetest sounds she'd ever heard. As the midwife lifted the infant- still slick with blood and birth, she felt her sister-in-law's arm slip around her back, helping to keep her from completely collapsing at the overwhelming realization that her husband was, as of mere moments ago, no longer here to meet his last child. The midwife the laid the baby in her arms, cleaned and wrapped in a blanket, and she felt the tears begin to race down her cheeks as she laid eyes on the last gift her husband had given her._

 _"If only yer Da 'ad liv'd t' meet you, my beaut'ful Michael."_

Tim bolted upright, the words echoing in his head. He quickly glanced at the clock; two AM. He could hear the rain dancing steadily upon the windows, turning what would have been an otherwise beautiful day dreary and grey, and making it less likely for people to go out. But that didn't mean they'd stop working on sorting through John's things, and with the team off rotation-

He turned to Ziva, who lay sound asleep beside him, long dark hair cascading down her back in tangles. It was amazing her snoring hadn't woken him before the dream had.

Or was it a memory?

Without a word, he pushed the blankets of their bed back and got up, making his way quietly into the living room, where he'd left the diary. Kathleen had also let him take the family tree, in the hopes he could make a connection between it and the book. As he took a seat at the kitchen table and unfolded the tree, his green gaze moved slowly over each member of the family-

There it was.

 _Zipporah Grace Pearse_

He saw how she was connected to Timothy Michael by way of marriage, and squinted to make out the small handwriting just above their names.

 _Married nineteen-hundred-and-ten_

Quickly, Tim did the math in his head, before getting up and grabbing a notepad and pen. So if he was right, Timothy Michael had been eighteen when he married Zipporah, and if the information on the tree was to be believed, then Zipporah herself had only been about sixteen at the time of their marriage, making her two years younger than her husband. Not uncommon for the time period. Couples often married young and had children right away, to secure lines, and the O'Sheas would have been no different.

His gaze drifted down to the three names that stretched out beneath the couple- for each child had married, and their own spouses resided beside them. He chuckled softly. A daughter and two sons, the exact opposite of Timothy Michael and his sisters.

Silence filled the apartment, only broken by the soft scratching of pen on paper as he jotted down the names and dates. One had been born in nineteen-eleven, the first year of their marriage, and the other two had followed not long after- one in nineteen-fourteen and the last in nineteen-sixteen. It was the last child that intrigued him.

What he could figure, the last child and Timothy Michael shared the same day- the fourteenth of May, nineteen-hundred-and-sixteen- though one was a death date and the other a birth date.

He reached up, scratching the back of his neck. If the... the dream? Memory? was to be believed, the youngest child had been born not long after their father had died-

"Tim?"

He jumped, turning to find Ziva standing behind him, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph! How many times have I asked you _not_ to do that, Ziva?"

"Sorry." She reached up, running a hand through her tangled hair before she rubbed his back. "I woke up and you weren't there. What are you doing up at two in the morning on a Saturday?" She leaned to look over his shoulder. "A family tree?"

" _Mams_ gave it to me before I left yesterday. Said she hoped I could figure some of this-" He gestured to the book sitting beside the notepad- "out."

Ziva nodded. "Oh. And... what did you find?"

He bit his lip as she took a seat beside him, waiting. "I found that Timothy Michael and his son share the same day- it's the day he died and his son was born."

"That is... horrible."

He chuckled softly. "And I _think_ , though I'll have to ask _Mams_ this to make sure, that _this_ is the boy that was her grandfather." He tapped the last of the three children's names. Ziva leaned close, reading it silently.

 _Michael Thomas_

 _Fourteen May nineteen-sixteen to fifteen September nineteen-seventy-eight_


	5. Chapter 5

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

She found herself standing on the front step, beneath the small eave, watching as her children rushed through the rain towards her. Sarah held the hood of her jacket tight to her head, and Tim had his arm casually draped over Ziva's waist, an umbrella between them, as they wandered from the car towards the house. Once close enough, Tim closed the umbrella and shook it out, and Sarah removed her hood. Kathleen quickly hugged all three of them, before allowing them into the house.

Thanks to the growing storm, the power had gone out sometime earlier, forcing her to go in search of the circuit breaker, but it soon became very clear that power was out all along the block. So among candles, the four set to work. Eventually, around six that evening, they stopped to take a break. Tim had slipped out and picked up a pizza and some coffees before returning, and that was how the four found themselves sitting around the dining room table, chatting and enjoying a meal.

"Hey _Mams_?" Kathleen looked up mid-bite. She raised an eyebrow, waiting. Sarah giggled, as her brother chuckled softly and continued on. "What was... your grandfather's name was Michael, right?" Silence reigned as Kathleen finished her bite before speaking.

"Aye. It was."

"What was his middle name?"

She thought a moment, furrowing a brow. "... Thomas, I _bel'eve_. Yes, _tha' 'ad t'_ be it. _B'cause_ your _gran'father's_ name is Liam."

"Liam?" Ziva asked, confused, and Kathleen nodded.

"Liam _an'_ , Siân. _Me moth'r's_ parents named all their _chil'ren aft'r_ Welsh _lit'rature_." She clarified at Ziva's confused look. " _No'_ uncommon, given _tha' me_ maternal _gran'fath'r_ was a _lit'rature profess'r_ at Queen's University in _Belfas'_."

"Can you not just look it up on the family tree?"

A small smile graced Kathleen's features. " _Aye, bu'_ is always _bes' t'_ check _th' mem'ry b'fore checkin'_ a tree. A tulip _plan'ed_ upside down will _no'_ grow in _th' gard'n_ , will it, Ziva?"

Slowly, the Israeli shook her head, having never heard such a saying, though considering some of the sayings in her home country...

"Besides, the O'Shea tree is... complicated." Tim added, glancing at his mother from across the table. "People are missing, not all the information is correct, sometimes there aren't even dates or proper names to go by. It's like... like whoever started it or worked on it didn't have all the information when they attempted to work on it."

"But... but your part of the tree... it is correct, right?"

"From _me_ parents down, _'tis_ all _corr'ct_." Kathleen replied, "it's... before _me_ _fath'r tha'_ the tree is... incomplete."

"But it is just one chunk, right?"

The three nodded. Kathleen pulled the tree towards her, for Tim had brought it and the diary back, hoping to get some answers from his mother. She slowly unfolded it after Sarah grabbed the pizza box, setting it on the counter. Her green gaze scanned over the names, landing on the Michael in question. "Here. _B'tween_ eighteen- _seven'y-eigh' an'_ nineteen- _twen'y_ -four. Dates are _missin'_ , people who should be there are _no'_. It's like... someone tried _t'_ erase _'alf th'_ family."

"And it's all around Easter Rising." Sarah said, shifting her seat closer to look over her mother's shoulder.

"Easter Rising?"

Tim glanced at his girlfriend, reaching out and taking her hand to quickly squeeze. "The rebellion by brave Irish to end British rule in Ireland and establish a free republic, an Irish republic. Took place the week of Easter Sunday, nineteen-sixteen, hence the name. It was the first... the first armed insurrection of the Irish fight for independence, and led up to the civil war that broke out in twenty-two. It was quickly squashed of course, and its leaders executed, the fighters rounded up and jailed by the British, but it brought about the rise of the Sinn Féin- the national political party in all of Ireland- and woke many up to the atrocities of the British against the Irish people."

He glanced at Kathleen, who nodded for him to continue. "It helped bring about the call for Irish independence throughout all of Ireland, and was the driving force behind the declaration for Irish independence in nineteen-eighteen and helped to bring about the War for Independence that started in nineteen and lasted until twenty-one; by then, rumblings of Civil War were being heard, and that war broke out in twenty-two. The War for Independence brought about the partition of Ireland-"

"It split it in two."

He nodded as Ziva slowly began to catch on. "Yeah, it did. It forced England to free twenty-six counties that would later become the Republic of Ireland, while keeping the North for themselves. It's what we've been fighting for for years- a united, _whole_ Ireland-"

"Free from _Brit'sh_ rule." Kathleen whispered, tears filling her throat. Though the kids understood, they hadn't grown up watching the violence taking place in the North; their childhoods weren't tainted with images of their fellow Irish being bombed, shot, stolen or slaughtered in the North at the time of the Troubles. She and John had made sure to shield the kids from the worst of it- as much as they could. It was the only reason she was glad John had had them move to America; though it had near killed her to leave her homeland, fleeing had been what was best, for who knew when the violence of the North would bleed into the South.

"Will Ireland ever be free?" Ziva asked; it was an innocent question. One that brought the tears in Kathleen's eyes sliding down her cheeks. She gave the girl a small smile reaching up to brush the tears away.

"Someday. God _willin'_." With a quick clearing of her throat, she turned back to the tree. "Michael was _me gran'fath'r._ " She tapped the name of the youngest child of Timothy Michael. "I _rem'mber_ his stories _o' growin'_ up in _Belfas' wit' 'is_ siblings."

"I thought you were from Dublin." Sarah replied, brow furrowing.

"I am, _bu'_ from _wha' Gran'fath'r_ told us, _aft'r 'is fath'r's_ death," She bit her lip. " _Aft'r 'is fath'r's_ death, their _moth'r_ moved _th'_ family _t' Belfas',_ "

"To get away?" Tim asked, and she nodded.

" _Dinna_ live there _v'ry_ long; they _return'd t'_ Dublin in nineteen _-twen'y-_ five, _aft'r th'_ war ended." She turned her gaze back to the family tree. "I know _tha'_ Zipporah _nev'r_ remarried-"

"Zipporah?"

Kathleen turned to Ziva, pushing the tree towards her. She stood, moving around to show her the name of the young woman who, in photographs, looked so much like her son's girlfriend. "Zipporah Grace Pearse. _Th'_ matriarch _o' th'_ O'Shea's. Married _a'_ sixteen, died _a' nine'y_ -two, in _eigh'y_ -six."

"She lived long." Ziva replied, looking up at the woman who would one day be her mother-in-law, if she and Tim lasted that long.

"She _survived_. She _nev'r_ lived. _No'_ really. She _coul'na_ bear _th' though' o' marryin' anoth'r aft'r 'er_ husband's death. Timothy Michael was _'er_ true love, _'er_ only love. She _nev'r go' ov'r 'is_ death."

Ziva turned her gaze to the name of the woman who had run the O'Shea family. She couldn't imagine living to be fifty, let alone ninety-two.

"What did they call her, _Mams_?" Kathleen looked up at her son, reaching out to rub Ziva's back. "Great-great-grandmother Zipporah? Did she have a nickname?"

Slowly, Kathleen nodded. " _Aye_ , she did. _Ev'ryone_ in _th'_ family, no _matt'r 'ow_ old, called _'er_ Zippi."


	6. Chapter 6

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

 _Ev'ryone in th' family called her Zippi._

Later that evening, Tim found himself lost in thought, as the water from the shower rained over him. They'd returned about nine that evening, after deciding that they'd have better luck the next day, when hopefully the power would be back on. Kathleen had given the book and tree back to Tim, telling him if there was anything he had questions on, to let her know.

So that was how he found himself in the middle of his shower, thoughts of his great-great-grandmother in his head, and the mystery that was her husband, his namesake. The mentions of a Zippi in the diary now made sense- Timothy Michael was referencing his beloved wife, the mother of his three children. Though from what he could figure, she had been pregnant when her husband had died, but that still didn't explain the... vision he'd experienced the night before.

Their last child had been born in nineteen-sixteen, on the day of his father's death, but there was no indication of how Timothy Michael had died-

"Dollar for your thoughts?"

He looked up as Ziva slid her arms around his waist after sliding the glass door shut. "Penny. It's 'penny for your thoughts', Zi."

She wrinkled her nose. "I like mine better." He chuckled, resting his forehead to hers. "What are you thinking, my love?"

"Just... this whole... it doesn't make sense. The diary, the family tree, Zipporah... and where does Timothy Micheal fit into all this? I know he's Zipporah's husband and Michael's father, but... what was so horrible that that section of the tree is left incomplete?"

Ziva shrugged, running her hands over his chest, gaze locking on the birthmark that resided over his heart. Besides the freckles that danced across his nose and covered only the right side of his face, it was the only other patch of darkness that marred his beautiful porcelain skin. She slowly met his gaze, remembering how it had surprised her when she first met him, to see someone with not only as many freckles as he possessed, but how they went from across his nose in a smattering to practically covering every available inch of the right side of his face. _Like a painter had taken her brush and splattered him with it, but had somehow managed to miss the left side of his face._

She smiled softly at him. "Maybe it was something she could not face. The tree looks complete to me-"

He shook his head. "It's not. _Mams_ said once that there eight children in Timothy Michael's family, but only four appear on the tree. So where are the other four?"

"Maybe they died young or were not born at all-"

"And Kit... from what Mams told us once, she had married young, and after her husband died in the first World War, she remarried- and Englishman, who took her to London and beat her to the point where she fled back to Dublin with her son in tow, but there's no mention of her second husband or her son from that marriage on the tree."

"Maybe they-"

"And Aileen... We found death records once, and I think one of them said that Aileen died in nineteen-eighteen. If that's correct, then she probably died from the Spanish Flu, but there's no death date for her. And there's no way she's still alive; she's be in her hundreds by now."

"They could have just forgotten-"

"I know that Fiona married some writer and... I think she had... six? eight? children. I have very vague memories of great-grandfather telling us about his aunts. I think that's what he said. That she married a writer and had a bunch of children, but then something happened and she ended up being placed in a hospital or... or something like that. I don't remember exactly."

"Sounds like they all had _wonderful_ lives." Ziva murmured sarcastically, sliding her hands up his chest and around his shoulders.

"In Ireland, in that time period, no way in Hell." She rolled her eyes, wondering if he was aware that he'd missed the joke.

"Tim? How about you stop focusing on your twisted family tree and kiss me?" He met her gaze, as though seeing her for the first time, and after a moment, she reached up, tangling her fingers in his hair as she rose onto her toes and captured his lips in hers in a deep kiss. His arms slowly slid around her waist, holding her to him, and the kiss deepened.

Ten minutes later, they found themselves wrapped in the tangled sheets of their bed, joining together in a passion that was as wild as the Irish moors Tim and his family hailed from. She dug her nails into his back as he pushed into her, filling her completely. When he broke the kiss, she met his gaze, reaching up to tangle a hand in his hair. "I love you, Timothy McGee."

"Oh, Ziva... I love you, so."

Eventually, they let their passion take control, and soon settled among the blankets, still joined together but sated and enjoying the familiar hum that coursed through their bodies. She pressed a firm kiss to his head, holding him closer as he lay in her arms. He buried his face in her chest, breathing in the subtle scent of sex and passion at it settled on their skin. Her fingers worked through his hair, and after a moment, he lifted his head, meeting her gaze. "What are you thinking, _ahava_?"

He sighed, shaking his head before resting it against her chest again. "Just... trying to figure out where my family went so wrong."

"Wrong?" She sat up, pulling him with her, and he looked up. "What's wrong with it?" He shrugged. "So there's a branch of your tree that is mysterious, that is not a bad thing. It just means that there's something for you and Sarah to discover. It does not mean that it is wrong. Just undiscovered. A secret. And a secret is just something not meant for others' eyes."

"So... these... secrets... does that make Sarah and I bad people for uncovering them?"

She shook her head with a purse of her lips. "No. They belong to your family, therefore you have every right to know what they are. It does not make you bad, just curious. And all curiosity is, is chaos, and chaos keeps people guessing. Like one giant puzzle." She thought a moment, before she grinned. "And I do not know about you, but I have always been very good at puzzles.


	7. Chapter 7

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

 _"Timothy!"_

 _The pages of the diary fluttered in the breeze, and he sighed, leaning back against the trunk of the tree in the backyard of their home. Though they lived in Dublin, the neighborhood in which he and his family resided was fairly well-to-do. He'd done good for his mere twenty-three years, making a good living as a foreman for the stockyard company, that he, his wife and children could live in relative comfort. But that still didn't take away the plight of his people, or the ever present cloud of the English._

 _"Timothy Michael!"_

 _The late November sunlight was warm on his face, and he briefly removed his cap, brushing the dark red strands of hair that fell into his eyes out before replacing it and returning to his writing, the familiar scratching of the pen on paper bringing a comfort to his worried soul he could not place._

 _... and me beloved Zippi, me darling Zipporah, is jus' beginnin' t' show tha' she carries our third child. She 'as always been small, bu' th' babe growin' within her makes her appear ev'n smaller. She's constan'ly re'ssuring me tha' it's normal, as 'twas normal with Seán Joseph before, an' Kathleen Helen before him. Does no' seem possible, tha' I 'ave watched me wife bear us two healthy chil'ren, an' tha' she shall soon bear a third. I am an' shall remain forev'r grateful f'r th' time I 'ave with them, f'r I fear I shall no' live t' see 'em grow into adulthood. I fear I shall die bef're I ev'r see a uni'ed, free I'eland..._

 _"Timothy Michael O'Shea!"_

 _His head snapped up, to find the woman in question standing before him, one hand gently resting against the soft swell beneath her dress, the other grasping a letter. "Zippi-"_

 _"D' ye no' lis'en when I call, Timothy Michael?" She stopped, seeing the book open on his lap. "Ah. Writin' 'gain?" Her husband had the decency to blush. "Well, 'tis no mat'er. This came t'day. From Fiona." She thrust the letter out to him, and he set the book and pen aside, taking it. His green eyes quickly scanned the contents, the wheels in his head beginning to turn before he spoke._

 _"They are spending time in Swansea, in 'opes... th' change in climate will 'elp her t' rec'ver from th' loss o' th' babe..."_

 _"I kno' tha'." Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his wife gently ran her hands over the small swell of her belly, no doubt thinking of her sister-in-law, who had just suffered the loss of her own babe. Though he knew his sister had been earlier in her time than his wife, it still, no doubt, set her on edge. With only six months left until their own child made its appearance in the world, he was going to make sure the pain his sister felt was not felt by his wife, and if that meant asking the doctor or midwife to put her on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy, then so be it. "Tha's no' why 'twas lookin' f'r ye. Keep readin'."_

 _His gaze moving on, he slowly stood, brow furrowing slightly. "Talk o' an... uprisin'... f'r nex' year... Éamon canna be ser'ous. 'e's a writ'r, f'r a newspap'r no less. 'e shoul' keep t' th' printin' shop."_

 _"'twoul' 'ave though' ye'd 'ave 'greed." Came his wife's quick reply, hands moving to cradle her belly._

 _"I do, bu' ev'n talk is dang'rous righ' now, A ghrá. Talk shall ge' us killed if we're no' careful." He knelt, quickly grabbing the book and his pen, before folding up his sister's letter and taking his wife's arm. "Ye shoul' be restin'."_

 _She rolled her eyes, but allowed him to slip his arm through hers, and found herself leaning against him as they returned to the house. "I 'ave carried yer babes bef're, Timothy Michael. This one is no diff'rent."_

 _He turned to her once they reached the steps to the back door. "Please, Zippi. Indulge a worr'ed fath'r, jus' this once?"_

 _She thought a moment, before reaching up and taking the front of his shirt. "A'ight. Bu' only if ye join me." The slow grin that spread over his features made her heart flutter, and she soon found herself caught up in a deep, tender kiss._

Tim lifted his head, his heart racing, but he didn't dare move, for Ziva was curled on his chest, sound asleep. Carefully, he checked the time, only to find it a little after one in the morning. With a sigh, he returned his head to the pillow and closed his eyes, tenderly rubbing her back as he tried to catch his breath. She shifted against him, tucking herself further into his embrace, her head beneath his chin.

 _Well, that explains one mystery._ He swallowed, pressing a kiss to Ziva's head. _Fiona suffered a miscarriage and escaped to Wales with her husband to recover._ He made a mental note to add that to Fiona's branch of the family tree. But it still didn't explain the other sadmiredupposed missing children. Only two were recorded on the tree- Evelyn Lorraine and Moira Rowan born in nineteen-aught-six and nineteen-aught-eight, respectfully- but from the memory- was it a memory?- it seemed as though Fiona had had another child, or was going too, when she miscarried.

He quickly did the math in his head. If he was right, and there was a good chance he was, that meant she had been pregnant and miscarried in fall of nineteen-hundred-fifteen; Zipporah would have been three months along with Kathleen's grandfather, meaning they had conceived sometime in or around late August or early September of the same year, which would make sense, since great-great-grandfather's birth date was May nineteen-hundred-sixteen.

Ziva's snoring caused him to jump slightly, and after a moment, he rolled his eyes, being careful as he lifted her off his chest and laid her back among the blankets before slipping out of bed. He made his way into the kitchen, unfolding the family tree and grabbing a pencil. In a quick, neat scrawl, he added a line not far from Moira and her husband, and then wrote in one word,

 _Miscarriage_

 _October/November nineteen-sixteen_

A small feeling of ease washed over him as he admired his handiwork. It was such a small addition, barely worth mentioning really, but in the grand scope of things, of their family, it was major. Perhaps it was what had led Fiona to her breakdown, to her being hospitalized... and if so, then acknowledging it- even if only adding it to the family tree- was the first step in taking away the stigma and mystery that seemed to surround Kathleen and the rest of the O'Sheas.


	8. Chapter 8

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

"Wait, let me get this straight- Fiona had a miscarriage. _That's_ why only two of her children appear on the tree?"

"No, the miscarriage only describes _one_ child. For all we know, she could very well have had six or eight and not told anyone. And if so, where are they?"

That morning, the siblings sat at the dining table in their parents' house, discussing what Tim had figured out the night before. He'd been wary of telling Sarah about the dreams he'd been having- until she admitted that she'd been having strange dreams as well.

"Strange dreams... _how_?" He eyed her warily, as he picked up his cup and took a sip. Ziva looked up from her conversation with Kathleen, turning to her boyfriend. Suddenly, Sarah found all eyes focused on her, and she fidgeted with the spoon she'd been using to stir the cream in her coffee.

"Just... strange dreams."

Her older brother raised an eyebrow at her, and after a moment, she sighed, setting the spoon down with a soft _clink!_ before speaking. After several seconds used to gather her thoughts, she finally spoke up,

"It was... it was about... I think it was... maybe in..." She stopped, meeting her brother's gaze. "There was arguing. Raised voices. I _think_ it was an argument between Timothy Michael and Kit, because I heard his name once or twice. Or... spoke his name or..." She huffed. "They were arguing about some... uprising or rebellion or..."

" _East'r_?" Kathleen asked, giving her daughter an out to stop trying to bumble around words. Slowly, Sarah nodded.

"I think so."

" _Ye canna do this! D' ye ev'n know wha' yer're riskin'?"_

 _"Of course I know! 'ow coul' I no'? MacDonagh came t' me, I dinna go t' 'im! 'ow coul' I say no? Aft'r wha' 'e asked?"_

 _"Simple! Ye say 'no'! Ye tell 'im ye 'ave a babe on th' way! Tha' ye need t' be takin' care o' yer wife, no' gallavan'in' 'round Dublin plannin' an upris'n'! Did ye ev'n think t' ask Zippi's opinion, Timothy Michael?"_

 _"Zippi 'as too much on 'er pla'e, wha' wit' th' babe 'bout t' make it's 'ppearance in three months' time."_

 _She set her jaw, irked even more at the ease with which her brother dismissed his wife and her opinion. If her husband had decided to go running around the city in attempts to start a rebellion, she'd damned well want to know every bloody detail. "She is yer wife. She deserv's t' know ev'n more than I. Or did ye forg't tha'?"_

 _"'tis no' Zippi's concern-"_

 _"Ye are 'er 'usband! O' course it's 'er concern! Ye are 'er concern! Jus' as she an' tha' babe is yers."_

 _Her brother lowered his head. "I'ma doin' this t' prot'ct 'er, Sarah." He whispered; it was so rare that anyone used her formal name, that she momentarily forgot herself. "So tha' when I'ma gone, she may bear no scars fro' me actions, an' may once m're find 'appiness wit' anoth'r."_

 _She furrowed a brow, her mouth falling open. "Ye... ye... Go hifreann leat, Timothy Michael O'Shea!"_

 _Then, without another word, she left, slamming the door behind her._

"She was... upset that he was keeping the... the plannings of a rebellion from his wife... and that he was... keeping it a secret from her because... because she was about to have a baby..."

"Their last." Tim replied, pushing the family tree towards his sister. "Michael Thomas. Born on the day his father died."

Sarah's gaze scanned the names, darting between Michael's and Timothy's. "Eighteen-ninety-two to nineteen-sixteen. That... that would have made Timothy Michael..."

"Only twenty-four at the time of his death."

Ziva shook her head, thinking of her sister, dead at only sixteen. "He died young."

" _V'ry_ young." Kathleen spoke up. " _No' uncomm'n. 'undreds_ upon _'undreds o'_ people died young in those times. _Wha's uncomm'n is tha' 'alf th'_ family _seem'd t'_ die _'bout th'_ same time or _no'_ long _aft'r_." Tim and Sarah turned to their mother, who got up, going to Sarah and leaning over her shoulder to unfold the family tree. "See _'ere_?" Tim and Ziva got up to join her, watching as Kathleen pointed to Moira Phillips, Fiona's youngest daughter. "Fiona _los'_ a _dau'ht'r_ , Moira, in nineteen-fourteen, when _th'_ girl was six."

Tim and Sarah shared a glance. There were so many things a child of the Edwardian era could die from- sickness, murder, an undiagnosed condition that no one knew existed- that the list was long and complicated. " _An' 'ere_ , Timothy Michael _an'_ Kit _no'_ only _los'_ their _old'r sist'r_ Aileen, _bu' 'er_ husband _an'_ nephew, all within _t'_ span _o'_ time _b'tween_ nineteen-seventeen _an'_ nineteen-nineteen, since there are no records or mentions _o'_ Aileen _af'er_ nineteen-eighteen."

"Fiona also had a miscarriage, _Mams,_ in nineteen-fifteen." Tim pointed out, gesturing to what he'd added to the tree that morning. Their mother's green eyes scanned the addition, and nodded.

"Timothy _'imself_ died in nineteen-sixteen." Kathleen's gaze moved to Kit and her family. " _An'_ Kit died in _twen'y_ -six; her husband, Jackie, died in seventeen, _prob'bly_ in _th'_ war." She sighed. "Zippi survived _'er ent're_ family, or practically all _o'_ them, _ev'n 'er_ own _chil'ren_." She shook her head with a sigh, reaching out to run her fingers through Sarah's hair, gently brushing the back of her hand against her daughter's cheek.

"That still doesn't explain why the rest of the family is... essentially blank." Sarah replied, turning to meet her mother's gaze.

"Something happened." Tim spoke up, sliding an arm around his mother's waist and giving her hug. "Something happened in the family, that caused... absolute chaos and..." he stopped, thinking. "And I have a feeling part of it has to do with Fiona." His mother furrowed a brow.

"I _dinna_ -"

"Look, _Mams_." He gestured to the specific branch in question. "There's no death date for Fiona. And you said yourself that you thought there were eight children originally, but there's only four on the tree. And she only has two children actually listed, when she could have had others. And Aileen... there's no death date for her either- all we know is that there aren't any records of her after nineteen-eighteen or so, so she either died or disappeared. Timothy Michael got into some sort of trouble around nineteen-sixteen- clearly something that had to do with the Easter Rebellion- and whatever it was, it brought about his death at twenty-four, and Kit... didn't you say that you thought she'd remarried after her first husband died? Where is he? And did she have any children with either man? Where are they? Something- logically- _something_ had to have happened for the family to react the way they did, and it had to be bad enough to change the family tree. Either change it or just stop including family members all together. But what was it?"

Ziva spoke up, having listened to everything, and something stuck out to her like a sore thumb. "What religion are the O'Shea's?" Three sets of green eyes turned to the Israeli, and she furrowed a brow. "What?"

"What kind of question is that?" Sarah asked.

"Catholic." Kathleen replied, at the same time Sarah spoke.

"Where are you going with this, Zi?" Tim asked, meeting her gaze. She bit her lip.

"I... do not know much- anything at all- about the Catholic religion, nor do I pretend to, but... I do know that they are very strict." She winced slightly at Kathleen's quick glare. "What if it was something to do with their religion?"

"I don't understand." Sarah whispered, meeting her brother's gaze. "Do you get it?" He shrugged.

Ziva sighed. "What if something happened that the Catholic Church frowned upon, and because the O'Shea's were- I'm guessing- devout Catholics, they responded in a way normal people would not? What if one of the girls got pregnant before marriage or something equally drastic, and in order to remain in favor with the church, their parents responded in the only way they knew how?"

"No." Sarah shook her head, a frown on her pretty features. "No way. Great-great-great Grandfather and Grandmother wouldn't punish the other children for a mistake the other made. No parent would do such a thing."

Ziva met Sarah's gaze, thinking back on her own upbringing, when it was common for all three of them to be punished for something one of them did. "You do not know what that type of family is like, Sarah, and I hope to God you never find out."


	9. Chapter 9

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

The drive home was quiet; Tim had never pried in regards to Ziva's childhood, and Ziva had never offered, so neither really knew how to act. After bidding Kathleen goodnight- with promises to be back after work- Tim, Ziva and Sarah left, going their separate ways for home. Now, though, he glanced at his girlfriend out of the corner of his eye; she was flipping through the diary, the family tree resting beneath it on her lap.

"What entry are you on?"

She looked up, surprised he'd spoken after their game of cold shoulder had started once they left Kathleen's. "What?"

He nodded towards the book as they came to a stoplight. "The entry. What entry is it? The date."

"Oh." She turned back to the book in her hands, quickly scanning the page. "Um... December twentieth, nineteen-fifteen. His handwriting is as bad as Tony's."

Tim chuckled softly, pressing on the gas and following the cars ahead of him through the light. "Read some of it."

"Are you sure, Tim? It belongs to a member of your family-"

"Who has been dead for years, Zi. I don't think he will mind. Read some of it."

A moment passed, before she turned back to the entry before her, gaze quickly skimming over the words.

 _"'Me poor Zippi is b'side 'erself. Wit' Christmas comin', th' chil'ren are all 'xcited an' woun' up, tha' it seems 'lmost imposs'ble f'r me wife t' ge' th' res' she needs. She insists tha' she is fine, bu' I canna see th' weariness b'hind 'er dark eyes. I 'ave 'alf a mind t' send Seán Joseph an' Katherine Helen up t' Omagh t' stay wit' Aileen an' Samuel unti' th' 'oliday arrives, t' give their moth'r a break from carin' f'r them, bu' Zippi won' 'ear o' it. She insists they are simply chil'ren, an' tha' all they need is t' ge' it ou' o' their systems. Still, I canna 'elp bu' worry 'bout 'er so. Th' loss o' Fiona's chil' is still heavy in both our minds.'"_

She turned to him. "He seemed to truly care for her."

"She was his wife, Ziva. I'm sure he loved her dearly. And she was carrying his child; that no doubt put added worry on him."

"He does not seem to care for his two other children."

"From the information on the tree, they were both under the age of five in nineteen-fifteen. I'm sure he cared for them; he clearly loved them."

"But he was considering sending them away-"

"To give their mother, who was pregnant with their brother, a break. He wasn't going to send them away permanently, just long enough for his wife to get some rest. He does not strike me as being like your father, if that's what you're worried about, Zi."

She 'hmmed' softly, but didn't say anything, touched that he was able to recognize her fear. She turned back to the entry, finding where she had left off.

 _"'Kit an' Jackie came t' visit t'day. I see Kit all th' time, f'r she's always stoppin' by, bu' Jackie- 'tis always a pleasure t' vis't wit' me brother-in-law. Kit 'as done well f'r 'erself; she 'as managed t' marry a man who sees an' accepts 'er mind, no' jus' 'er body or money. Wit' 'is deep brown 'air an' dark eyes, one woul' think Jackie woul' 'ave been born t' Italians-'"_

She looked up, thinking. "He could be describing Tony."

Tim chuckled softly. "I think you're right in regards to looks, but he was most likely a black Irish."

Ziva furrowed a brow, confused as she turned to him. "A what Irish?"

"A black Irish."

"Is their skin the color of African-Americans?"

He shook his head with a soft laugh. "A black Irish is simply a term for someone who's hair and eyes are darker than the normal red and green- brown eyes and brown hair, basically. A brunette. Like you."

"Oh." She blushed, suddenly embarrassed, but unsure why. After a moment, she turned back to the book, finding where she left off.

 _"'I informed Jackie o' wha's bein' planned, an' 'e neith'r 'greed nor discourag'd. As a lawy'r, 'e 'as sat back an' watch'd th' atrocities done t' us by th' Brit'sh, an' feels as we do. 'is sugg'stion, o' course, was t' go 'bout it th' legal way. Wha' Jackie doesn' und'rstan', is tha' th' Brit'sh will nev'r go 'bout things th' righ' way, f'r they feel they own us. They will nev'r lis'en t' civil arguments, b'cause they refuse t' be civil. Th' only way they will lis'en is throug' action.'"_

"Action." Tim whispered as he pulled into the space in front of their apartment complex. "I think I know what happened."

"Well can you explain it to me? Because I do not understand." Ziva asked as they got out of the car and headed up the steps to their apartment. She clutched tight to the diary and family tree, grasping Tim's hand in her own as they hurried up the three flights to their third-floor home.

"Timothy Michael says that the only way the British will listen is through action, right?" Ziva nodded. "And that entry was written in December fifteen, right?" Another nod. "Easter Rising took place in April of the following year, nineteen-sixteen."

"Okay. And?"

"And... if my hunch is correct, then I know what action Timothy Michael was talking about and I know why he died in May of nineteen-sixteen."

He unlocked the door and pushed it open, hanging his jacket on the hook by the door and slipping the keys into the bowl they kept on the small side table before toeing off his shoes and padding into the living room. He grabbed his laptop and took a seat on the sofa, Ziva following. She curled up beside him, watching as he pulled up Bing and typed in 'Easter Rising'. Instantly, over a million results came up, and he picked the first one- a website dedicated to the rising itself.

"This is what you and Sarah and your mom were talking about, right?"

He nodded. "It started on the twenty-fourth, and continued until it was squashed on the twenty-sixth. The rebels were forced to completely surrender, and the leaders of the rebellion executed. Four-hundred-eighty-five people died in the rebellion, and over fifty percent of civilians were wounded. Some of Dublin was left in ruins."

"You know an awful lot-"

He chuckled softly. "Sarah and I were born in Ireland. We grew up in Dublin until we were ten or so, when _Mams_ and _Da_ decided it was best we flee to America; _Da_ was in the Navy by then, and no one was certain if the violence from the Troubles in the North would make their way to the South. Sarah and I have lived here since we were about ten, twelve. We haven't been back to Ireland since."

"Oh. Do you plan on going back?"

The young agent thought a moment, before glancing at her. "I do, actually. Mams is moving back to Dublin once the house is sold- should only be another couple weeks. We made good progress today. And if you want my honest answer, well," He set the laptop on the coffee table, turning to face her and taking her hands. His long fingers gently played with hers before lacing through them. "Sarah and I have talked about it, and... we've both decided..." He sighed, studying her hands until he could get up the courage to meet her gaze. Slowly, his green eyes rose until they locked on her dark ones. "We've both decided to take some time and go back with Mams. We own a house in Dublin that has been in the O'Shea family for... centuries, basically, and... and Mams is moving back to it. It's the house Sarah and I were both born in. We're going to help her move, and then we're going to stay for a while, help her get situated- not that she needs it- and just... spend some time at home."

"But your home is here, Tim."

He shook his head. "The homes we made are here, Ziva. But our home- our _real_ home- is back in Dublin. The house we grew up in, the city... the culture... the island... that's our home. Besides, Sarah brought up- and I agree- that it might be easier to figure out exactly what happened to Timothy Michael and his family if we're _back in_ Dublin. Maybe once there, we can figure out what happened to the rest of the family, figure out why _Da_ had the diary in his possession, and we can bury _Da_ as well." Ziva opened her mouth, but Tim cut her off. " _Da_ was a son of Ireland, just like I am, just like _Mams_ and Sarah are daughters of Ireland. He deserves to be buried on Irish soil, not American. He may have been loyal to America by way of the Navy, but his heart lay in Ireland. The heart of every McGee does. And when it comes to where we rest for eternity, we will never rest in American soil. We will always rest in Irish, even if we have to be flown back by way of airliner."

"And the O'Sheas?"

He grinned. "There has never been an O'Shea that has lived in America- until _Mams_. They are perfectly content in Ireland, they have no desire to live anywhere else. _Mams_ went because it was the right thing to do at the time, and now it's the right time for her to go back. Just as Sarah and I will eventually return to marry and raise our families in Dublin some day."

"But your life is NCIS-"

Tim shrugged, either unconcerned or not seeing the fear in her eyes. "It won't be forever. And eventually, I will tire of the drudgery of the work and return to my home country and settle in Dublin, and probably marry an Irish girl and have a couple of children."

"What... what will you do?" She choked out softly.

"In all honesty? I'll probably write. I always wanted to be a writer."

She pulled away, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Does... does the girl you marry... _have_ to be Irish?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

 _"Are ye sure ye know wha' ye're doin', Timothy Michael? Wha' if somethin' 'appens?"_

 _Two sets of green eyes locked, and he sighed, reaching out to take her hand. "'twill be fine, Kit."_

 _"Ye don' kno' tha-" She replied, turning and taking his shoulders. "Ye coul' ge' yerself killed-"_

 _"A' leas' I'd be diein' in th' figh' t' free I'eland. Coul' be no m're nobl'r cause than tha'-"_

 _"Bu' is dyin' worth no' bein' there when yer chil' is born? No' gettin' t' 'old yer son or daugh'er? No' gettin' t' watch 'em grow? Timothy-" She reached up, taking her brother's face in her hands._

 _"I will no' live t' watch 'em grow, Kit."_

 _She furrowed a brow. "Wha' are ye-"_

 _He pulled away from her, turning his gaze back to the house. Through the front window, past the lace curtains his wife had hung years earlier, he could see Zippi, at the piano. The normal familiar slender profile of her he was so accustomed to was broken by the great swell of her abdomen, for she had mere weeks to go before the birth would take place. A moment passed, and she stopped her playing, reaching down to lay a hand against the mound beneath her dress; her fingers trailed over the soft material, raking gently along the sensitive skin she could feel directly beneath the soft muslin of her dress. He was not ashamed to admit that he loved watching her at night, as she pulled the soft muslin nightgown on, as the swell that held his child disappeared beneath the fabric, and he often spent hours after she came to bed pushing the material up until it was tucked beneath her breasts so he could trace patterns on and cradle her belly, delighting silently in the feel of their child moving within her at response to his touch._

 _"Talk t' me." Sarah stepped in front of the window, blocking the view of his wife. "Timothy, talk t' me!"_

 _His gaze slowly moved to latch onto hers, and he sighed, pulling away and taking a seat on the steps leading up to the front door. After several minutes, she joined him. "'twill no' live t' raise me chil'ren, Kit." She opened her mouth to speak, but he continued. "'twill will no' live t' meet me son."_

 _"Tha's prepos'erous! Ye- wai'... son?"_

 _He shrugged. "I jus'... I canna 'xplain it, I jus'... I jus' know... 'tis a son she carries."_

 _His sister sighed, laying her head against his shoulder and sliding an arm through his, reaching down to take his hand in hers. "D' no' talk like tha', Timothy Michael. Ye will live t' watch 'em all grow. F'r birthdays, an' Chris'mases an' all th' things a Da does wit' 'is chil'ren." Her brother 'hmmed' softly in response, before shifting his head and pressing a soft kiss to her hair. "An' ye an' Zippi will grow ol' t'geth'r, jus' as Mams an' Da will, an' ye will 'ave many... many, many, many gran'chil'ren t' spoil. Ye will be th' patriarch o' a gran' line o' O'Sheas, f'r many years t' come. An' 'twill do grea' things, yer gran'chil'ren. An' th' gen'rations af'er 'em. An' th' ones af'er them. An' they 'twill be th' ones t' free our lan'. They will be th' ones t' free I'eland fro' th' Brit'sh."_

 _Her brother sighed, his lips resting against her head, as he let the images she painted wash over him._

 _Grandchildren. Many, many, many grandchildren. And great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren, and great-great-great-grandchildren. So many he lost count. All with the famous Irish hair and green eyes, or Zippi's breathtaking darkness. All with the same spark and fire in their hearts and souls, to make changes they themselves could not make in their time, to demand the release of the Irish from the British chains, to see a free Ireland, an independent, strong Ireland._

 _"Soun's beaut'ful." He whispered, pressing another kiss to his sister's red hair and closing his eyes, allowing himself to breathe in her familiar scent. He released her hand, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her close, relishing in the feel of his baby sister in his arms once more, for he feared this would be the last time he got to hug her._

 _"'twill be, Timothy." She replied softly, wrapping her own arms around his waist. She hated how casual he was, how calm he spoke of not living to meet his new child or see the children grow. It unnerved her, downright scared her, if she were honest with herself. It was as though he knew he would not bear witness to the birth of the child Zippi carried in her womb, or that he would even live to see twenty-five, for his birthday had been mere weeks before. She feared for the situation her beloved brother had gotten himself into, and that he was in so deep he couldn't get himself out._

 _Were his prediction to come true, what would happen to Zippi and the children? Women had few rights as is in Ireland, and widowed mothers even less- though they had more rights than a fallen woman, that was for sure. And they were well off, her brother and his wife. This grand house they called home and raised their children in had been a wedding gift from Zipporah's parents, as was common for the times. But there would be a stigma, Kit knew, the same stigma that surrounded all widows, be they mothers or no. Were Timothy Michael to die as he felt he would, Zippi would be forced to wear widow's weeds for at least two years, possibly more. She would not be able to bear seeing Timothy Michael's beloved and wild Zipporah dressed in black for two years if her brother's prediction came true. For Zipporah was as wild, bubbly and bright as the waves the crashed upon the sands beneath the Cliffs of Moher, and to don black would be to crush her very spirit, if not break her heart._

 _Though her hear' will al'eady be brok'n if he dies. She shook the thought away, determining then and there that no harm would come to her brother; he would be safe, and whatever trouble he had gotten himself into he would get out of. Yes, she would do all she could to keep her family intact. Even if it meant keeping a tight hand on Timothy, if only to spare Zipporah the crushing pain of such a devastating loss._

 _She turned her green gaze to her brother's face, and after a moment, leaned up, pressing a firm kiss to his cheek. "'twill be fine, Timothy Michael. Ye will live t' be ol' an' grey. I swear i'."_

 _He smiled softly at her, but it didn't reach his eyes._

Tim blinked, and the memory faded. A moment passed, before he remembered that he and Ziva had curled up on the sofa that night after getting home. Their conversation had turned to silence as he'd stared at her, green eyes wide, caught completely off guard by her question. He'd stammered for several minutes, before finally telling her that he wasn't sure. He'd never really thought about it, he'd just always thought he'd marry an Irish girl. While she hadn't seemed satisfied with the answer, she'd accepted it, knowing she'd completely thrown him for a loop. At one point, they'd forgone dinner in favor of a glass of wine, and put a movie on, eventually curling up on the sofa and falling asleep as the credits rolled.

Slowly, he lifted his head; Ziva was curled into his side, still sound asleep. Gently, he shifted until she lay on the sofa, and took a blanket laying across the back of the sofa, draping it over his girlfriend before getting up and slipping back into his shoes. He grabbed his laptop, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then grabbed his keys, quickly checking the time on his phone.

A little after ten.

As he slipped out of the apartment, he considered not going, but he knew that she would be up. They were so similar at times, it was a wonder they weren't twins. As he pulled away from the curb, he briefly thought back to Ziva, but then shook his head. As much as he loved her, this was something strictly confined to his family; if _Mams_ didn't understand, Sarah definitely would.


	11. Chapter 11

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

 _"Kit?"_

 _Her gaze was torn from the image of her brother as he hurried down the street; she turned, to find her sister-in-law standing in the doorway, dark gaze trained on her husband's retreating form. She hurried up the steps, taking her sister-in-law's arm and attempting to guide her back into the house, but the woman wouldn't budge. "Zippi, shoul'n't ye be restin'? Ye d' no' 'ave much long'r t' go 'ntil-"_

 _"Why is 'e 'voidin' me? Wha' did I do wrong? I 'ave been a goo' wife, a goo' moth'r. I 'ave borne 'im two chil'ren, an'... an' am 'bout t' bear a third... an' ye' he..." She turned to meet the youngest O'Shea's gaze. "'as he foun' som'one else? 'ave 'is... appetites turn'd t'... t' 'noth'r?"_

 _She shook her head. "No! No, no' a' all! Zippi, Timothy loves ye. 'e truly does-"_

 _"Then why is 'e avoidin' me, Sarah?"_

 _Kit winced; it was so rare her name was used, she temporarily forgot what it sounded like. And yet, hearing it come from Zipporah's mouth, with the hurt reflected in her dark eyes, she couldn't help but feel guilty for keeping her brother's secret. But she'd promised. And the last thing either she or her brother wanted to do was upset Zippi when she was so close to birth._

 _"Come bac' inside, Zippi. I'll make tea. We canna talk then."_

 _Slowly, the young mother allowed herself to be guided back into the house, and she followed her sister-in-law into the kitchen. A quick nod to the maid told the young girl that they would be fine on their own, and she excused herself to work on something else, leaving the two O'Shea women in the kitchen alone. Out of the corner of her eye, Kit watched as Zipporah slowly made her way to the table, carefully lowering herself into one of the chairs. Her hands moved to cradle the round swell of her belly, and she released a slow breath, eyes closed. Instantly, Kit slammed the kettle back on the stove, rushing to the other woman's side. The noise caused Zippi's eyes to snap open, only to find her sister-in-law kneeling beside her._

 _"Are ye okay? 'tis no' th' baby, is it? Ye 'ave four weeks t' go, it canna be arrivin' now! 'twill no'-"_

 _But the mother-to-be reached out, grabbing onto her wrist and squeezing firmly. "I'ma fine, Kit." Her gaze was steady; there was no pain other than the hurt at her husband's actions reflected in her dark eyes, and she watched the younger O'Shea with a look Kit had only ever seen her older sister Fiona wear. "Th' babe's fine. I jus'... tire from i' all. I 'ad f'rgotten 'ow 'xhaustin' 'tis t' carry a babe. I 'ope ye nev'r 'ave t' 'xperience i'."_

 _A small smile tugged at the other woman's features. "Bu' I wan' t'. I wish m're tha' anythin' in th' world t' be a moth'r som'day." She took Zippi's other hand, squeezing gently. "I see ye wit' Joe an' Nellie, an'... an' th' babe," She reached out, gently laying a hand on her sister-in-law's belly. "an' I 'nvy ye, Zippi. I 'nvy ye bearin' me broth'r two 'ealthy wee ones, an' carryin' a third... I wan' t' be a moth'r m're than I've ev'r wan'ed anythin' in th' world. 'xcept maybe t' see I'eland free." She chuckled softly, and Zippi smiled gently, reaching up to cover the other woman's hand with hers._

 _"We all wan' a free I'eland, Kit." She whispered, gently pressing against the other woman's hand. "We 'ave lived too long und'r th' 'and o' th' Brit'sh, we nee' t' be free." She gently pressed again, watching the slow smile that spread across Kit's features as she felt the babe move within its mother- limited movement, for with only a few short weeks left, there was very little room for the babe to move around._

 _"'tis beaut'ful." Zippi grinned at the breathy declaration; she knew how desperately Kit longed to be a mother, for when she'd first met the girl, the redhead had declared that they would raise their children together, for she would have as many children as God wished to grant her. And despite her marriage to Jackie Gallagher now five years strong, there was still no miniature copy of either her or her husband running around to show for it. It was not unfair to say that Kit felt wholly and completely inadequate as a wife because she could not give her husband the one thing she longed for more than anything- while her beloved sister-in-law could, had, and was going to in a few short weeks. Silently, in the deepest crevices of her heart, Kit despised Zipporah for giving her brother the one thing she had been unable to give her own husband. She would never voice it, but it was there, like the tiniest of stains on the finest of homespun lace, that only she could see. And every day Zippi got closer and closer to giving birth, the more glaringly evident that tiny stain became._

 _"'twill 'appen f'r ye, when ye're ready."_

 _She shook her head. "No, it won'. 'twoul' 'ave 'appen'd by now." She stood, pulling away and returning to the tea she'd been fixing._

 _"'ave faith, Sarah." She stopped, mid-pour, glancing quickly over her shoulder; Zippi caressed her belly, gaze trained solely on her. "Yer babe will come whe' leas' 'xpect i' t'."_

 _She didn't say anything in response, instead, she finished fixing the tea, set the kettle down, and then set a mug in front of her sister-in-law before joining her at the table. They lapsed into silence for several minutes, before Zipporah, gaze locked on the steam rising from her mug, asked,_

 _"Wha' is 'e hidin'? Please, Kit." She swallowed, absentmindedly running her hands over her belly in slow, steady strokes. "D' no' lie t' me, Sarah. I know 'e is hidin' som'thin' from me."_

 _"... 'e doesn' wan' ye t' know."_

 _Dark eyes darted to meet hers. "I'ma 'is wife. I des'rve t' know. When I marr'ed 'im, we prom'sed no secr'ts. I kep' me plaprom'se. 'e 'as no' kep' 'is."_

 _She sighed, trying not to meet those dark eyes her brother had fallen in love with. Instead, she set her gaze on her sister's hands, watching as they slowly, tenderly, moved over the round swell that hid beneath the soft, light-blue muslin of her dress. It didn't seem possible that such a tiny thing like Zipporah could grow so big in almost nine short months, but she had, not just now, but twice before. "Sarah. Sarah Katherine."_

 _Her gaze darted back to her sister-in-law's, and she swallowed thickly. "'e 'as been... keepin' it a secr't b'cause 'e does no' wan' t' ups't ye. Wit' ye bein' so close t' birth-"_

 _"Ups't me?" Zippi's voice was even, soft. "Di' yer broth'r no' cons'der tha' no' tellin' me woul' ups't me more?"_

 _She bit her lip; Zippi had a point. A woman left out of the loop was worse than a woman scorned. "Timothy Mi- 'e 'as... gott'n int'... 'e is... 'elpin' t' plan... som'thin' 'gainst th' Brit'sh. T' 'elp free I'eland." Her gaze darted to her sister-in-law's face; Zippi's jaw was set, and she seemed to be forcing herself to remain calm. Her hands tangled in the muslin of her dress, and she winced slightly as the babe kicked in response to its mother's hard pressing against its temporary home._

 _"Wha' kin' o' plan, Kit?"_

 _"I... I canna... I prom'sed..."_

 _"Wha' kin' o' plan, Sarah!"_

 _She jumped at the harsh tone and suddenly, the words began to tumble from between her lips like the finest of diamonds. "An... an uprisin' o' some kin'. I dinna kno' 'xactly wha' kin', bu'... they's... plannin' f'r... f'r Eas'er."_

 _Zipporah closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep breath. "Damn ye t' bloody 'ell, Timothy Michael." She turned her gaze to her sister-in-law. "I swear t' Sain' Brigid, Sarah, I'ma kill 'im."_

The door opened after several minutes, and Sarah found her brother on the other side, looking as bad as she probably did. "You too, Timmy?" He nodded, and she stepped aside. "Come on in." Once the door shut behind him, she shuffled into the kitchen; he set his laptop, keys, the tree and the diary on the table as she made coffee. "What was yours about?"

He sighed, taking a seat and placing his head in his hand with a yawn. "Timothy Michael and Kit were... discussing something he had gotten involved in. I _think_ it had to do with the Easter Rebellion, because he talked about not living long enough to meet his child or living to raise his children. She tried to convince him that everything would be fine, and that he'd live a long life. But evidently, that didn't happen, since he died in May of sixteen."

Sarah nodded, setting the cups on the table and taking a seat beside her brother. "Mine was about... Zipporah was trying to get Kit to tell her what her husband was hiding from her, and eventually, she relented and told her." She sipped her coffee. "She couldn't have children. Kit." Sarah clarified at her brother's look. "They tried, but... never happened. If I were to guess, I'd say she was probably envious of her brother and his wife- that they had children, and seemed to have children so easily, while she and her husband couldn't, no matter how hard they tried." Tim shook his head. He couldn't imagine trying to have a child, only to be rewarded with heartbreak. For his ancestor to suffer such a blow had to have been unthinkable, and his heart went out to a woman long dead. "How do you think they connect?"

Her brother sighed, sipping his coffee. "They both have to do with the Easter Rebellion. If we can find the connection Timothy Michael had to it, we might be able to figure out where Fiona and Kit and the rest of the family fit in."


	12. Chapter 12

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

"Are we really going to do this, Timmy? Go back to Ireland? Go back home?"

"We have to, Sarah. _Mams_ -"

" _Mams_ can handle the move fine on her own... she's not the only reason, is she?"

"No."

"It's the diary, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"But... how would we even know where to start looking?"

"They're called archives, Sarah."

"You _know_ what I mean, Timmy."

"... I know. I just-"

"What about Ziva?"

"What about her?"

"Is she going to come?"

"She's not family, Sarah."

"You've been together three years. Everyone knows you're going to propose to her eventually. She might as well be family."

"... this isn't her concern. Besides, she has work."

"So do you."

"I already put in for time off. Vance approved it at the end of last week. I've got enough leave saved up for six weeks if necessary. As is, it should only take us about three weeks to get everything sorted out with _Mams_ in Dublin and figure out the missing leaves of the family tree."

"Why not just take the full six weeks instead of three? You'll get the same leave next year, because knowing you, you'll start saving up again as soon as you get back from Dublin."

"If I choose to come back."

"What?"

"You heard me, Sarah."

"I know I heard you, but... but what do you mean 'if you choose to come back'? What are you thinking of doing, Timmy?"

"Moving back to Dublin permanently, or... maybe looking to transfer offices... or find work at a federal agency in Ireland, that isn't necessarily NCIS. I don't have to be employed at NCIS, Sarah. I can work in any federal agency I wish, I've just stayed with NCIS because it's..."

"Convenient?"

"... yeah. I want a change of scenery. Even if that scenery is Dublin. It's gotten... boring, I guess you could say."

"I get that. I think I might transfer schools. I can finish my masters anywhere; it doesn't necessarily have to be Waverly. I hear Dublin University has a good masters program for Literature... are we really thinking of doing this, Timmy?"

"I'm not thinking of it. I'm going to."

"... me too... so we're really doing this? We're going to go back to Dublin with _Mams_ and... stay?"

"I am."

"... so am I. I just... I miss home. And America was a nice home, but..."

"But it's time to go back."

"Yeah."

He reached over, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. The siblings lay facing each other on Sarah's bed, the diary closed between them. In truth, it had been more than just Kathleen moving and the diary that pushed the siblings- they'd both been considering going back to Ireland for a while. This was just the push they needed to get their butts moving.

Sarah sighed, relaxing as her brother continued stroking her hair; when they were kids, the familiar rhythm always managed to calm her down, even more so if it was Tim doing it. She loved her brother; despite there being only two years between them, Kathleen and the family often joked that they could have been twins they were so close. They had spent their early childhoods in Dublin doing everything together. Despite the Troubles raging in the North- or perhaps because of them- Kathleen had kept a tight hold on her children, especially after the miscarriage in 'eighty-seven. But it wasn't just Kathleen. All the mothers in Dublin had kept tight holds on their children at the time, for the violence in the North had been so prominent, it was only a matter of time before it took over the South as well. And when it did, it would bring about all out war.

"How do we do this, Timmy?"

"When I put in my request for leave, I informed Vance that, depending on how everything went, I might not return. He understood."

His sister nodded, picking up the diary and flipping through it. "Don't you find it a little odd that _Mams_ ' maiden name was O'Brien, but the rest of her family were O'Sheas?" She shifted onto her back.

He shook his head, propping himself onto his elbow. " _Mams_ is an O'Shea by birth. For some reason, her parents saw fit to change the name at some point. I don't know why. I don't see anything particularly _wrong_ with the O'Shea name. But for some reason, Grandfather decided that he no longer wanted to be an O'Shea and so changed it to O'Brien. Which is ridiculous, because he basically wiped out an entire branch of the family by doing so."

"He wiped out half the family." Sarah muttered, stopping on an entry. "Simply because he didn't like the name."

"There's more to it than that, Sarah. This goes way beyond not like the O'Shea name; this has something to do with the family itself and what happened with Timothy Michael and his siblings. It all stems back to them."

"Hmm." She let her dark gaze scan over the page before turning it and stopping again. " _'Eight September, nineteen-fifteen.'_ " She glanced at her brother, who nodded for her to continue. _"'Me belov'd Zipporah came t' me t'day b'fore I lef' f'r th' stocky'rd; aft'r checkin' on th' chil'ren, she slipp'd back int' our room, makin' 'er way t' where I was dressin' an' slipp'd 'er arms 'round me from b'hind. She was n'rvous- an' Zipporah's rarely n'rvous. I barely 'ad a chance t' ask 'er wha' was both'rin' 'er b'fore she blurt'd ou' sof'ly 'gainst me back,_

 _"Shall 'rrive in May."_

 _I turn'd t' her, no' und'rstanin' a word o' it, bu' she sai' nothin'; simply took me 'and an' held it 'gainst 'er belly, an' sudd'nly, th' meanin' was clear as day.'"_

Tim chuckled softly, the image of the shock on his namesake's face flashing before his eyes. "Well, that's one way to inform your husband."

Sarah giggled, rolling onto her stomach and laying the book on the pillow before continuing. " _'I fear me 'eart stopp'd once I realiz'd wha' she meant. As was, all I coul' manage t' do was squeak, an' she giggl'd, reachin' up t' catch me chin in 'er free 'and. "Are ye proud o' me, Timothy Michael?" She ask'd, her voice sof' an' fill'd wit' worry. "Tha' I am 'avin' 'noth'r o' yer chil'ren?"_

 _Wha' she doesn' und'rstan' is tha' I woul' be proud o' 'er regar'less o' wheth'r she carries me chil' or no'. Zippi 'as nev'r follow'd trad'tional conventions, an' I 'ave nev'r 'spect'd 'er too. She is as wil' as th' moors o' our belov'd I'eland, an' I woul' nev'r ask f'r anythin' oth'r than wha' she is. It matt'rs no' t' me if we ev'r 'ave 'noth'r chi'd. I am simply 'appy wit' Seán Joseph and Kathleen Helen, 'noth'r chil' 'tis no' necessary, bu' Zippi 'as nev'r been conten' wit' our two. She star'ed askin' aft'r a third 'bout a year ago, bu' I pu' me foo' down, insistin' 'twas no' necessary t' 'ave a third. Bu' me wife is stubb'rn, an' once she ge's an idea int' tha' brillian' 'ead o' 'ers, she won' be satisfi'd 'ntil she 'as wha' she wants.'"_

"She sounds like Ziva."

"Great-great-grandmother Zippi?" Her brother nodded. "I guess she does, in a way."

"Stubborn as all hell, that's for sure."

Sarah laughed, knowing he was right. If Ziva put her foot down about something, she refused to budge and no one would change her mind. She turned back to the diary, finding where she'd left off.

 _"'I do r'sent, 'owev'r, tha' Zippi feels it 'er 'duty' t' bear 'noth'r chil. I tol' 'er when I marri'd 'er tha' I woul' nev'r force 'er t' do anythin' she dinna wish t' do. Tha' I woul' no' make 'er 'ave chil'ren if she dinna wish t'- tha' I woul' be conten' jus' 'avin' 'er wit' me f'r th' res' o' me days, regar'less o' wheth'r God gif'ed us wit' chil'ren or no'. Bu' all she 'as ev'r want'd was chil'ren, an' it makes 'er so 'appy t' be a moth'r, 'ho am I t' deny 'er 'er deep'st wish?'"_

"She was like Kit." Tim whispered, meeting Sarah's gaze. "All great-great-grandmother Zippi wanted was to have children and be a mother."

Sarah's green eyes filled with sadness, as she thought back on the memory that had clouded her sleep before her brother had woken her up. "And she got her wish. Kit didn't."

"Unless the rumors are true and she remarried after her husband died, and had a child with her second husband."

"And that... that is the million dollar question." Sarah whispered, closing the diary and turning to face her brother. He nodded.

"But is it true?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

Kathleen looked up at the sound of car doors slamming, and made her way to the door just as Tim and Sarah came dashing into the house.

"Sorry we're late, _Mams_!"

" _Wha'_ is _goin'_ on? Sarah, _don' ye 'ave_ school? _An'._.. Timmy _aren' ye s'pposed t'_ be _a'_ work?"

Tim shook his head. "I put my leave in last week, and it was approved on Friday. As far as anyone knows, I'm on vacation."

"And I already let my professors know that I'm going to be gone for about four weeks. We've got everything cleared. Timmy managed to book the last two seats on your flight last night."

"I _dinna und'rstan'_." Kathleen looked between her children, completely confused. Almost all of the furniture had been sent to Goodwill this morning; the rest of her things had been packed up and were shipped back to Dublin over the weekend. All that was left were some of John's things, and Kathleen was taking them on the plane with her. Except for a few minor things, the house stood empty, waiting for the realtor to come by so Kathleen could give her the keys and get her deposit back. Her flight would leave at eleven-thirty, and it was almost nine now.

"We're going with you, _Mams_." Sarah clarified, and Kathleen's brow furrowed deeper. "We're going to help you move back into the house, and then we're going to stay for a few weeks. Try and figure out the O'Sheas. Maybe even stay permanently."

 _"Permanently?"_ Kathleen shook her head, dark red ponytail swinging. " _Oh, no, ye're no'. Ye 'ave lives 'ere, an' I will no' le' ye give 'em up-"_

" _Mams_ ," Tim grabbed her wrist, sliding his fingers through his mother's. "This isn't a spur-of-the-moment decision. Sarah and I have been thinking of going home for a while now. We've had our fill of America, and we want to go home to Dublin. To I'eland." The soft lilt the young man tried so hard to suppress shone through, as though silently rejoicing in finally being free; for though the siblings had spent most of their childhoods, teenage and adult years in America, the lilt had never gone away, just faded slightly with time.

Gently, Kathleen reached up, taking her son's face in her hand. "Are _ye sure 'tis wha' ye really wan'?_ Both _o' ye_?"

They both nodded, and Tim pressed a kiss to his mother's palm. "More than anything, _Mams_." Sarah whispered, as Kathleen reached over and took her hand.

" _An' wha' o'_ Ziva?" The older woman asked, turning her gaze back to her son.

"That is what I'd like to know." The siblings turned, to find the Israeli standing on the front lawn, arms crossed over her chest, her red Mini Cooper parked on the curb.

"Ziva-" Tim pulled away from his mother as the woman made her way towards them. "Wh.. what are you doing here?"

"I called _'er. Want'd t'_ tell _'er goo'bye b'fore_ I _lef'_." Kathleen replied, as the Israeli's dark eyes flicked to the older woman before turning back to her son. She moved past Tim, going to Kathleen and wrapping her in a hug.

"Safe travels, Mrs. McGee."

"Please, _Mams, ye're pract'cally family_." Kathleen replied, shooting her son a pointed look that made the agent shiver.

Ziva smiled softly. _"Mams."_ Once she pulled away, she turned back to her boyfriend. "And you! Leaving this morning without waking me up and telling me where you were going! How dare you-"

"He came by to see me, Ziva." Sarah jumped in, taking her brother's hand.

" _Thank God_. But that _still_ does not excuse that you left without leaving a note! I thought Gibbs had called us in and you'd forgotten to tell me! And just as I was about to head to work, your mother called." She glared at both siblings. "And now I hear that you are both planning on going back to Ireland, possibly _forever?_ What about _me_ , Tim? Does our relationship not... _satisfy_ you anymore? Is that it? Have you found someone else?"

"No, Zi... Ziva... Ziva!" He reached out, taking her arms and tugging her close. "That's not it at all."

"Then why?"

He took a deep breath, trying to quell the shudder of deja vu that came over him at Ziva's reaction. _Just like Great-great-grandmother Zipporah._ "Because it's the right thing to do. For both Sarah and I. We... we've grown bored of America, we want to go home."

" _Bored of America_? How can anyone ever be _bored of America_?"

"You did not spend the rest of your childhood growing up here, Ziva." Sarah replied. "All any of us have ever wanted is to go home. And now we can."

"That still doesn't explain why you want to quit our relationship, Tim-"

"I don't want to, Zi." He whispered, reaching up to cradle her cheek. "And I'm not going to. But if I decide to stay in the end, I want you to come. We can make a fresh start, outside of NCIS." Her eyebrows shot up in horror, and she pulled away slightly. "I love NCIS, but... but I can't see myself spending the rest of my life working for it like Gibbs. I want so much more than being a glorified paper pusher." Ziva winced at the words a suspect had used a few weeks ago in reference to the agents of NCIS. Though she'd been able to act like it didn't bother her, it was clear it still did, and Tim too.

"Tim-"

"I want to write, Ziva. I want... I want to spend the rest of my life writing, selling my novels and building worlds you can travel to when you open the pages of my books. I don't want to spend the rest of my life at a desk."

"We don't-"

"I don't want to be here anymore, Ziva. Please, try to understand." He huffed in annoyance, pulling away from her and running a hand through his red hair. "Dublin is our home. It's more our home than America has ever been. America is just a place we've lived, it's not a home. And... we can't figure out what happened to the rest of the family three-thousand miles away, so it's best if we go back-"

"We've already got everything set up, planned. We're going, Ziva, and you can't stop us." Sarah whispered. The college student wasn't too proud to admit that Ziva scared her- more because of what she could do than anything. She loved Ziva like a sister, but still. The Israeli studied them both for several minutes, before speaking.

"Fine. But I am coming with you."

 _"Oh no, you're not!"_ Sarah cried.

"Ziva, you have to _put in a request_ to take time off, and you haven't. I have. That means you're staying here. Besides, who will reign Tony in when Gibbs is off interrogating a suspect or God knows where?"

 _"I do not care! I am coming with you, Tim. I'm not going to leave you to fend for yourself against some Irish hussy-"_

 _"Hey!"_

 _"You have been watching too much TV if you think that's all there is in-"_

A sharp whistle cut through the argument, and all three turned to Kathleen. "Thank _ye_." She turned to each in turn, studying them silently. " I _don' 'ave_ time _f'r_ this." She turned to her children, gaze softening as she studied her son and daughter. "I know why _ye wan' t' ret'rn, an'_ I think _'tis_ a _goo'_ idea. _Ye_ both _nee'_ time away. _An'_ if _ye_ end up _stayin', ye_ end up _stayin'. 'twoul' no' both'r_ me any. I think _'twoul'_ be _goo' f'r ye._ "

She turned to Ziva; the hurt in the Israeli's eyes evident. It was clear the girl had issues; she didn't seem like the type to be in a long term relationship, but she was quickly proving everyone wrong. She just needed the right partner, and Kathleen knew that her son was the one she needed. But she also knew that Ziva's issues with men stemmed from her father; while Ziva had never mentioned what had happened between her parents, it was evident that her father had been unfaithful, and that his actions had destroyed her parents' marriage. She understood, really, she did. More than the kids ever could, for she'd watched her mother cheat on her father when she was a child, in an action that had ripped the family apart. As if the secrets of the O'Sheas and the changing of their name wasn't enough to bear, the scandal of one of Dublin's oldest, most prominent families being caught up in an extramarital affair had drug the already tarnished name through the mud and near destroyed their good standing. Yes, Kathleen understood where Ziva was coming from. But that didn't mean she could insert herself into the family's issues just because she was dating Kathleen's son.

" _I'ma_ sorry, Ziva, _bu' ye're no' comin'._ Tim's _righ'. Ye 'ave t' pu'_ in _f'r_ leave, _an' t'_ be _hon'st,_ we _don'_ need _ye wit'_ us."

"We don't _want_ you with us." Sarah grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest, a pout on her small features. Ziva's dark eyes darted to the college student, but Kathleen waved it away, making it clear Sarah was to keep her mouth shut.

"But Tim-"

"My brother can't lie, remember! And he's never been very good with women, so you have nothing to worry about in that respect-"

 _"Thanks, Sarah."_

"Well it's _true_. I'm still trying to figure out how you managed to woo Ziva-"

 _"Can i' bot' o' ye!"_ Kathleen turned back to the agent, taking her hands. " _'tis_ a family _affa'ir_ , Ziva. _Ye_ are _no'_ family- yet. When we _nee' ye_ , we'll call, _no' b'fore_. Until then, be _patien'_."

"That's not her strong suite." Tim muttered, as Kathleen ignored her son, moving to press a kiss to the young woman's cheek just as the realtor pulled into the driveway.


	14. Chapter 14

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

 _"'ow are we t' go 'bout this? Surely th' Brit'sh-"_

 _"'he Brit'sh are nothin' bu' a bunch o' mindless-"_

 _"We star' small. Parades an' manoeuvers, t' begin on East'r Sunday." Patrick Pearse replied. The young Directory of Military Operations was soft-spoken, yet radical in his thinking. He'd once told Timothy that he had spoken to God at age ten, and promised to dedicate his life to Irish freedom._

 _"Timothy! Timothy Michael, are ye list'nin'?" The young stockyard manager tore himself from his thoughts, finding the rest of the leaders watching him. Having been put in charge of the stockyard demonstrations that would take place the week of the uprising, he took his job seriously, but found it increasingly easy to lie to his wife about what they were planning. He hated lying to Zipporah, for they'd promised no secrets, no lies._

 _"Sorry, 'twas... los' in though'." He muttered, picking up the mug that had been set in front of him when he arrived. As the seventeenth leader of their small rebel forces, and the Commander of Outside Communications- meaning he was the one who made sure all the locations were chosen and set properly and that everyone knew their place- he knew his role was as important as the rest. But in that moment, he could focus on nothing but the image of his wife in the parlor before he'd left, playing a tune on the piano, the great swell of her belly that signified their growing child evident beneath her clothes, the roundness of her meaning that she would soon go into labour and childbirth- and the dawning realization that he would not live to see it._

 _"'bout tha' young bride o' yers, are ye? 'ow is Zipporah? 'tis gettin' close, aye?"_

 _He nodded at Joseph Plunkett's soft teasing. The young poet and journalist was engaged to be married to a beauty named Grace Gifford. It was Joseph's plan they were to put into action, for he, as they all, felt that the only way to make sure England knew they would not go quietly was to stand and bear arms, to show them that no matter what they thought, England could not have Ireland._

 _"Aye, 'tis gettin' close."_

 _"When is th' babe t' make its 'ppearance?" A young man by the name of Michael Collins asked, having just slipped into the room from somewhere down the hall. In the years following what would become known as the Easter Rebellion, this young man would later become a politician, and play a major role in the civil war that would break out in twenty-one, before his assassination in twenty-two, but at that moment, he was simply a young, energetic aide de camp to Plunkett, who dreamed as they all did of a free Ireland._

 _"May." He whispered, wrapping his hands around the mug._

 _"Are ye 'cited?" Michael asked, blowing strands of hair out of his eyes. "'tis yer third, aye?"_

 _He nodded, giving the younger man a small smile. "Aye, our third. An'... more n'rvous than anythin'. 'tis why I couldna tell 'er o' this. I fear'd 'twoul' ups't 'er an' bring th' babe early."_

 _Eamonn Ceannt, a former accountant for the Dublin Corporation, chuckled softly. He knew the worry Timothy Michael was facing, for he himself had faced the same when his son Ronan was born back in aught-six. He reached out, patting the young man's arm in a reassuring gesture. "'twill be fine. Yer wife is strong; 'twill bear ye 'noth'r 'ealthy chil', as she 'as b'fore." He remembered meeting Zipporah O'Shea a few years back, and had been quite taken with the wild beauty, for she seemed to always be smiling, laughing, and managed to pull Timothy Michael from his shell with an ease few women possessed. Overall, he felt they were a good match for each other, and hadn't hesitated to tell the young man so._

 _"Th' stockyards are set, aye, Timothy?" The young father's gaze moved to meet Tom Clarke's eye, the oldest member of the group and the one responsible for planning this 'Easter Rebellion' as they called it. He nodded._

 _"Aye, ev'rythin's set."_

 _Clarke nodded, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Good. Then 'twill meet a' th' nex' convenience."_

 _As he pulled on his light coat and quickly made his escape, he was unaware of the person until he slammed into them. "I'ma sorry- Kit?"_

 _His baby sister looked up at him from her place on the ground, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes as she accepted the hand he offered and allowed him to pull her to her feet. "'twas 'opin' I'd find ye."_

 _"Wha' are ye doin' 'ere?"_

 _She blushed, accepting the arm he offered. "I wan' t' 'elp." Her brother raised an eyebrow. "D' no' look at me like tha'."_

 _"No." He shook his head, turning to her. "Ye 'ave t' 'elp take care o' Zippi-"_

 _"Zippi 'tis fine, Timothy Michael."_

 _"Bu' th' babe-"_

 _"Shall no' appear f'r 'noth'r few weeks. An' by then, this shall be ov'r an' I'eland shall be free. An' ye will be there t' mee' yer chil'." She replied, squeezing his arm. "B'sides, Jackie p'efer's t' stay ou' o' it, bu' I canna turn me back on wha's 'appening. I won'."_

 _Her brother sighed, before speaking. "I dinna like this..." He met her anxious gaze. "Bu' if ye're so se'... go fin' Coun'ess Markievicz. 'tis 'andlin' th' women, she can 'elp ye."_

 _"Thank ye, Timothy Michael." She rose onto her toes, brushing a kiss to her brother's cheek. As she hurried off, she stopped, turning back to him. "An' ye... migh' wan' t' tread ligh'ly when ye r'turn 'ome."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"B'cause Zippi d'mand'd I tell 'er wha' ye 'ave been doin'. 'tis fine! Both she an' th' babe, bu'... 'tis angry." And without another word, she hurried off._

Tim awoke to Sarah snuggling closer to him. A moment passed as he got his bearing back, before he remembered that they were on the flight back to Dublin. Kathleen was sitting next to him, gaze locked on the window. If it wasn't for her occasional fidgeting, he'd have thought his mother sound asleep. She turned to him as he shifted in his seat, gently brushing the hair out of Sarah's eyes. A small smile tugged at his mother's lips. " _No' ev'n ragin'_ Kelpies _coul'_ wake _'er_."

Her son sighed, turning to glance at his sister. "Are we doing the right thing, _Mams_? Going home?"

She shrugged. " _Ye_ feel _ye 'ave t'. 'tis yer d'cision, no'_ mine. If _ye_ feel _'tis righ'_... then _'tis righ'_. Only _ye_ can _deci'e_ , Timothy."

He lay his head back against the rest. "Like the rebels did with the rising?"

"I _b'lieve_ so." She reached up, gently caressing his cheek before turning back to the window. "Timothy, look." Her son leaned around her to stare out the window. The movement woke Sarah, and she stretched. They could see the island stretch out before them, getting closer and closer. Kathleen reached out, taking his hand and squeezing. " _W'lcome 'ome, me_ loves."


	15. Chapter 15

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: The Irish lullaby is called _Toora Loora_ , and it's one our mother sang to us; it's an old song written in 1913 and is in the public domain. Written: 2006.- Licia**

Though Dublin had changed; grown over the years, the house they'd been born in still remained the same. When Kathleen and John had fled, they'd kept the house in their name, refusing to sell, and so it had sat vacant for the last several years. But now... now it would return to being a home.

A sigh escaped Kathleen's throat as she looked up the steps towards the red door with the ornate iron knocker- she knew that Timothy Michael had insisted the door be painted red when they moved into the house, to ward off evil spirits and ghosts. She also knew that Zipporah had humored her beloved husband, but had soon come to love the bright red of the door; she remembered Zippi telling them that every year, Timothy Michael would repaint the door himself, and after his death, one of her brothers-in-law would do it. Eventually, the children were old enough to paint it themselves.

But the poor old door hadn't seen a fresh coat of red paint in years, and she knew it was time for that to change. Once everyone was settled, the first thing she would do was buy a can of paint and freshen it up.

"Finally, we're home." She chuckled as Sarah joined her, and after a moment, wrapped her arm around her daughter's waist.

"Aye, we are."

Stepping back into the house that had been a wedding gift to Timothy Michael and Zipporah was like stepping back in time. Though there were several modern amenities, the majority of the house was still the same. The stairs that started in the back of the parlor or living room led up to the second floor, where the bedrooms were located. The kitchen was good-sized, as was the dining room.

Tim followed his sister up the stairs as his mother returned to get the last of her bags from the car. He could hear Aunt Moira, his mother's older sister, say something but couldn't hear what was said. Moira had picked them up the airport and had been thrilled to see her niece and nephew again after so many years apart. He turned, making his way past the open door of one of the guest rooms- for the house had six bedrooms, enough for as many children as Timothy Michael and Zipporah could be blessed with.

He stopped, something through the open door catching his eye. A soft voice reached his ears, and he stepped towards the door.

 _"Over in Killarney, many years ago..._ _"_

Standing by a cradle was a young woman, not much older than Sarah, dressed in a gown of soft black muslin that reached her ankles, her dark hair pulled back into a bun, curls clinging to her neck and cheeks. She held something in her arms, and after a moment, she shifted, and Tim realized she cradled an infant in her arms, a white blanket wrapped around the baby. She rocked gently back and forth, calming any whimpers the babe in her arms was making.

There was something familiar about the woman- she reminded him of Ziva in regards to her looks- but he couldn't put a finger on it. It was as though she'd stepped out of the pages of an old Sears catalog from the turn of the century.

"Timmy?" He glanced quickly at Sarah, and quickly shook his head. She joined him, opening her mouth, but the sight of the woman stopped her. "Are... are you seeing-" He nodded at her soft whisper. "Who is she?"

Her brother opened his mouth, but quickly closed it. The siblings watched as the woman turned to the window, before turning back to the baby in her arms. _"Shh, 'ush, Michael. No nee' f'r tears."_

Sarah grabbed her brother's arm, digging her nails in. " _Michael_? _Great-grandfather Michael?_ " She whispered, turning to her brother, but Tim was too fixed on the woman to respond. Suddenly, it all made sense.

Zippi.

He was watching great-great-grandmother Zipporah, rocking great-grandfather Michael to sleep.

She seemed oblivious to her great-great-grandchildren witnessing this tender moment; if she did notice, she didn't acknowledge them. Her focus was solely on her son, and she reached out, taking his tiny hand in hers. _"Yer Da loves ye so much."_ Tears filled her voice, and Tim and Sarah watched as they slid down her cheeks. Evidently, her husband had just died, and she was in mourning. The black widow's weeds she wore did nothing to mask the beauty of the young woman, or hide the heartbreak that radiated off her like heat from the sun. She continued to sing, rocking the baby gently in her arms, her gaze locked on her son.

Sarah leaned against her brother, tears in her own eyes as she watched the long dead matriarch of their family comfort her son. The baby couldn't be more than a couple weeks old, Sarah rationalized, so Timothy Michael had to have died just recently. "It's really her." Sarah breathed, and Tim nodded, drinking in Zipporah's small features.

They were the same features his mother and sister possessed, the same big eyes and small nose; the same high cheekbones and heart shape of the face. Her long dark hair was an oddity in the O'Sheas, but it was common knowledge in the family that Zipporah's dark beauty was renowned in the finest of middle-class circles back in her day. She had been the envy of women, and the desire of men, and Timothy Michael had been the lucky one to court her and win her hand in marriage. It had been every bit a love match, for she loved him as deeply as he loved her, and their wedding had been the talk of Dublin back in nineteen-ten. The fact that she had conceived and bore their first child so soon after their wedding was another thing that set her apart from many women in Dublin. A woman who did not conceive and bear a child in the first year of marriage was considered ill luck in turn of the century Ireland, and the fact that Zipporah had conceived and borne their first child- even though it had been a daughter- was considered good luck, that she was fertile and a strong match for the O'Sheas.

But to Zipporah and Timothy Michael, their daughter had been a blessing, something that only cemented the love they shared and expanded it. Kathleen had told them how Zipporah often spoke of how Timothy Michael would have been happy had she borne him ten daughters and no sons, for they all would have come from her womb, and he loved her so. Yes, great-great-grandmother Zipporah's love story was as beautiful as it was tragic; to the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Zipporah O'Shea, it was better than Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ , and deserved to be as world renowned as the famous playwright's.

Tim rested his head against the door frame, the lullaby was one Kathleen often sang to them, but to hear it from Zipporah's lips- she was by no means a singer, not by today's standards of what constituted 'music'- made him understand where the song had come from. They often called it the family lullaby, but to hear it from their great-great-grandmother... even if she was only there in their minds, well...

"I see why great-great-grandfather Timothy Michael fell in love with her." Sarah whispered, reaching up to brush away the tears sliding down her cheeks. "She was so pretty."

"She was beautiful." Tim whispered, watching as Zipporah pressed a kiss to her son's head.

" _Wha'_ are _ye_ two _doin_ '?" The siblings turned as Kathleen stopped on her way to the master bedroom. "Ah." She sighed, shifting her hold on the box in her arms. Moira stood behind her, and the older woman sighed, meeting her sister's gaze.

"She's _bac' 'gain_?" Kathleen nodded.

"Again?" Sarah turned to her mother and aunt. Moira nodded.

" _Don' ye kno'? Ev'n_ if _th' 'ouse_ was on _mark't, 'twoul'n't_ sell. _Th' res' o' th' O'Sheas woul'na 'llow_ it."

"What do you mean the 'rest'?" Tim asked, and Moira nodded towards the bedroom.

" _'tis 'er 'ome. Ev'n fr'm th'_ grave, _gran'moth'r_ Zipporah _'twill_ make sure _i'_ stays in _th' fam'ly._ "

They all turned back, watching Zipporah as she rocked her son. "It's haunted?" Sarah breathed, gaze shooting about the room, and Moira nodded.

"Some say _fr'm th' mom'n'_ Timothy Michael drew _'is las'_ breath. _Tha' 'e_ came _bac' t'_ watch _ov'r 'is_ wife _an' chil'ren. An' th' res' o' th' fam'ly ret'rned wit'_ each death. _Bu'_ Zipporah's _th' strong'st. 'twas 'er 'ome. 'twas giv'n t' 'er an'_ Timothy Michael as a _gif'_ by _'er_ parents on their _weddin'_. Only makes sense _tha'_ she _woul'_ be _th'_ one _t'_ make _'er_ presence known _th' mos'_." And without another word, Moira and Kathleen headed down the hall, leaving Tim and Sarah in the doorway.

With the last note of the lullaby leaving her lips, Zipporah looked up, her dark gaze latching onto her great-great-grandchildren, her son now fast asleep in her arms. The tears had dried on her cheeks, and she adjusted her hold on the baby, a tiny smile gracing her features for the briefest of seconds. She took a shaky breath, studying them both, and fresh tears began to trail down her cheeks as she recognized the O'Shea features, her features. _"W'lcome 'ome, littl' O'Sheas."_ The baby whimpered in his sleep, and she turned back to him. _"Shh, 'ush Michael Thomas. 'ush. Da woul' no' wan' t' see tears in those beaut'ful green eyes."_

She turned from her great-great-grandchildren, the lullaby starting up again as she and the baby faded away; the nursery faded from view, leaving the guest room in its place, as the last strains of Zipporah's lullaby disappeared like the mist on the moors.


	16. Chapter 16

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

"Does _no' surpr'se_ me, _tha'_ they _r'main. 'tis_ thei _r 'ome, an'_ I _kno'_ Zipporah _oft'n_ spoke _o' no' wan'in' 'er 'ouse t'_ fall _int' strang'r's 'ands_."

"I _rem'mber_." Kathleen spoke softly as she set out plates. They'd ordered pizza earlier, and the sisters were just waiting for Tim and Sarah to join them in the kitchen. Overall, the house needed very little work- some appliances needed to be updated as well as the rooms- for the beds in Tim and Sarah's rooms had been from when they were children- as well as the utilities and basics, but that could all be done in the next few days. "I think Zippi _migh' 'ave scar'd 'em_." She whispered, taking a seat across from her sister as her children finally came into the dining room. Moira chuckled softly.

" _Nobody told us_ this house was _haunted_." Sarah said, reaching for a plate and handing one to her brother. Tim took a seat beside his aunt, accepting the plate with the pepperoni on it.

" _Woul' ye 'ave b'lieved_ us?" Kathleen asked as her daughter plunked down beside her.

The siblings shared a glance. "No."

" _'tis_ why we _dinna_ tell _ye. Ye 'ad t' fin' ou' f'r yerselves._ " Moira replied, taking a sip of her tea.

The siblings shared a glance. "The baby she was holding. She called it Michael. Was that great-grandfather-"

"Michael Thomas O'Shea." Kathleen finished for her daughter. " _Aye._ Born on _th'_ day _'is fath'r_ died. Zippi always _sai' tha'_ she knew _th' mom'nt 'er 'usband_ died _b'cause 'twas th' mom'nt 'er_ son fully _lef' 'er_ womb." The sisters shared a glance. " _Th'_ O'Sheas _'ave suff'red_ too much _ov'r th'_ years."

"More than half the family is wiped out on the family tree." Sarah said after swallowing her bite. "I mean... they're there, but there are no dates or..." She stopped. "And why did grandfather change your name? What's wrong with O'Shea?"

Kathleen glanced at her sister, who bit her lip. "Your _gran'father... 'e 'ated th'_ name O'Shea. We _'lways figur'd 'twas_ too common-"

" _O'Brien_ is more common than O'Shea." Sarah cut in.

"' _ad nothin' t'_ do _wit'_ commonality." Moira replied. " _'as t'_ do _wit' th' fam'ly_."

"He didn't like the O'Sheas?" Tim asked, brow furrowing. "He was an O'Shea, wasn't he?"

Kathleen nodded. " _Aye, 'e_ was. Michael Thomas's _young'st_ son; his _secon' young'st chil'_. He _an' 'is_ wife Evie- Evelyn- _'ad_ six chil'ren. Three _daught'rs an'_ three sons. Patrick Collin. _'e 'ated anythin' t' do wit' th'_ O'Sheas. I _dinna kno' 'bout ye,_ Moira, _bu'_ I _rem'mber 'im gettin' int' argum'nts wit'_ Zippi _'bout th'_ O'Sheas."

"I _rem'mber._ " Moira whispered as the sibling shared a glance.

"Arguments?" Tim asked, setting down his glass. "What kind?" Kathleen sighed.

 _"Ye're an O'Shea, Patrick! Change yer name all ye wan'! 'twill no' change th' O'Shea blood in yer veins! Or th' blood in yer chil'rens'!"_

 _"I don' wan' anythin' t' do wit' th' O'Sheas, Gran'mother! Why in God's green earth woul' I wan' anythin' t' do wit' those... murd'rous... trait'rs!"_

 _The sound of flesh hitting flesh caused her to jump and scurry back from her place on the stairs. Even at ten, Kathleen knew to never strike another, especially your elders, but to see great-grandmother Zippi striking her own grandson... "'ow dare ye! 'ow dare ye ins'nuate yer gran'father 'twas a trait'r! Yer gran'dfather, th' good Lord res' 'is soul, fough' t' free I'eland from th' Brit'sh, an' 'e died f'r it! Me b'loved Timothy died sos I'eland coul' be free, an' instea' o' embracin' yer roots, ye shun 'em! All o' 'em! Kit, Fiona, Aileen, Timothy, ev'ry single one! Ye shoul' be prou' t' be O'Sheas!"_

 _"Prou'? O' wha' they did? Th'... pain an' 'urt they 'elped cause our people?"_

 _"Wha' 'xample are ye settin' f'r yer own son, Patrick? F'r Liam an' 'is chil'ren? Changin' their name! Ev'ryone in Dublin can smell th' O'Shea blood in yer veins, reg'rdless o' yer name."_

 _"No, gran'mother, I'ma no', an' neith'r are me chil'ren or me gran'chil'ren. We're O'Briens."_

 _"Say i' all ye wan'. Ye're an O'Shea, an' ye canna 'ide fr'm i'. An-"_

" _'An O'Shea canna 'ide fr'm 'is blood.'_ No _matt'r wha'_ he does, an O'Shea _canno' 'ide_."

"What was he hiding from?" Sarah asked, biting into her slice. Kathleen shrugged.

"No one knows. _'e nev'r sai'. Bu'_ it _prob'bly 'ad somethin' t'_ do _wit' th' res' o' th' fam'ly._ " Moira replied, noticing the diary Tim had brought down. _"'tis_ it?" He nodded. She quickly wiped her hands and picked it up, flipping gently through the pages. "Timothy Michael is as much a _mys'ery_ as Agatha Christie _myst'ries._ " Eventually, she set the book down, turning to her nephew. "'ow does i' feel t' be 'ome?"

Tim glanced at his sister. "It'll... take a little getting used to." He looked around the dining room before turning back to his aunt. "Ziva doesn't understand. We've been away too long. It was time to come back."

" _'tis yer_ girl?" He nodded. "Seems _t' me_ Ziva's _runnin' fr'm som'thin', no'_ to. She needs _t'_ work _ou' 'er_ own issues _b'fore ye_ two _ev'n think o' marryin_ '. We _don' wan'_ _tha'_ kinda crazy in _th'_ O'Sheas. We _'ave enoug' o'_ our own."

He chuckled softly, knowing Moira was right. "She was afraid I'd be unfaithful. I'd never be unfaithful. I don't know how to be."

" _An' tha'_ is a _trai' ye ge' fr'm_ Timothy Michael. _'e lov'd_ Zipporah _uncond'tionally; 'ad 'e liv'd, nev'r woul'a_ strayed. _Jus'_ as Zipporah _dinna af'er 'is_ death." She reached over, taking his chin her hand. " _Ye 'ave m're_ O'Shea _tha' Pa'rick ev'r car'd t' admi'._ O'Sheas are loyal, _t'_ those they marry _an'_ their _coun'ry- som'thin' Pa'rick nev'r und'rstood."_


	17. Chapter 17

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

 _"Zipporah please! Ye d' no' 'ave much long'r, ye shou' be restin'-"_

 _"I wan' t' see me husband, Kit." She turned back to the guards. "Timothy Michael O'Shea."_

 _The guards nodded, moving past and directing them down a hallway towards a door on the left. A moment passed as another guard unlocked it, allowing them in. Once it shut behind the two women and their gazes adjusted to the light, they saw the young man sitting at the table, lost in thought. "Timothy." He looked up, pulled from his musings, his green gaze lighting on his wife and sister._

 _"Kit. Zipporah."_

 _The younger O'Shea rushed to her brother, throwing her arms around him. "I'ma sorry, I dinna know-"_

 _He shook his head, taking her face in his hands. "'tis okay, Kit. I dinna blame ye. I f'rgive ye. 'twas no' yer faul'."_

 _The younger woman burst into tears, wrapping her arms around her brother and burying her face in his shoulder. "'twill ge' ye kill'd."_

 _"I kno'. I kno'. Bu' I'll die wit' th' 'ope tha' one day I'eland 'twill be free. Take care o' Zipporah f'r me." She nodded, and he brushed a kiss to his sister's forehead. "I love ye, Sarah Katherine."_

 _"I love ye." She pressed a kiss to his cheek before pulling away and going to Zipporah. She took her sister-in-law's hand, squeezing gently. Once she'd slipped out of the room, Zipporah turned to her husband, hands resting on the swell beneath her dress. With less than a week to go, the matriarch of the O'Shea family should have been home, for her confinement had started two months previous, but at the news of her husband's possible execution, she couldn't just sit back. She had to see him, proper convention be damned._

 _"Ye shoul' be 'ome. Ye 'ave n' much long'r." She shrugged as her husband made his way towards her. It was then that she saw how thin he'd gotten- he had always been thin and lanky, but this worried her. Though his green eyes never lost the spark she'd fallen in love with._

 _"When I rea' o'... o' th' executions in th' pap'r... 'ad t' see ye." Tears misted in her dark gaze, and he gathered her in his arms, burying his face in her neck._

 _"Oh, Zipporah..."_

 _Despite the swell of their child between them, he held her as close as he could, breathing in her scent, drinking in the feel of her small body against his, the smell of her hair. Slowly, he pulled away, sliding his hands down her sides, resting his forehead to hers as she reached up to cradle his face in her hands. Tears filled his gaze, and he blinked; they rushed down his cheeks, and after a moment, he pulled away, turning his gaze to her belly. "Ye've grown so." She blushed, reaching down to cover his hands as they rested against the material of her dress. There was no movement now, for it was too cramped within her womb and the babe was preparing for birth. "Nex' week?" She nodded, nudging her nose against his. "Ye shoul'na 'ave c'me."_

 _She shook her head. "I love ye, Timothy Michael. I 'ad t' c'me."_

 _He sighed, kneeling down so he was level with her belly. "Ye're t' c'me nex' week, an' no' a day b'fore. Ye 'ear me, me son?" He gently traced his fingers over her belly, feeling light movement within, as she reached down and ran her fingers through his hair. "No' a day b'fore. F'r 'twill be gone by th' time ye ent'r th' world an' I nee' ye t' make sure yer moth'r keeps livin'." He pressed several firm kisses to her belly, as Zipporah shook her head._

 _"Ye will be-"_

 _"I love ye, Michael Thomas. 'twill always love ye, me son."_

 _"Timothy-"_

 _He stood, pulling her into his arms again, his forehead resting against hers. "Raise 'im t' love I'eland, an' t' und'rstan' why we mus' be free." She nodded, not fully understanding, but not wanting to deny her husband this request. "Teach 'im t' und'rstan' wha' it means t' be a goo' man."_

 _"Ye will do tha', me love-"_

 _"An' t' embrace th' O'Sheas an' all they stan' f'r."_

 _She shook her head. "Timothy-"_

 _"R'mind 'im- all o' 'em- tha' I love 'em. So much tha' Death 'imself will no' keep me fr'm 'em, or ye."_

 _She met his gaze, reaching up to caress his cheeks. "Ye're scarin' me, Timothy Michael. Stop i', please. No m're talk o'... no m're. Please, I beg ye-"_

 _Tears raced down her cheeks, and after a moment, he captured her lips in his, drinking in her kiss. His arms slid around her, holding her to him, as her own arms slid around his neck, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. As he drank her in, deeper and deeper, he tasted the very fabric of her soul, every tiny tear and stitch, every moment that made up her life- and so many of them centered around him. Each moment that filled her soul was like a beacon; a lighthouse in the storm to guide him home, and he treasured them, locked them away for all eternity, for they were the moments that mattered. His marriage, his children, his wife- each more significant than the last, that they made Death pale in comparison._

 _His grandfather used to tell him that a kiss was a way of transferring souls- that with each kiss, a little bit of the person's soul was given over to the other; silly superstition of course, but in that moment, he prayed to the good God above that it was true, for he wanted Zipporah to possess as much of his soul as possible. He would not go to his grave unless satisfied that the very fabric of his soul had been sewn with hers-_

 _Of course, for such a scene as this to be witnessed was highly improper, but he cared not for propriety at the moment. He was a dead man walking, and he was determined to go to his grave with the feel of his wife in his arms and the taste of her on his lips. He could not rest otherwise._

 _Eventually, he slowly broke the kiss, pulling back only to press soft kisses to her lips once more before burying his face in her neck once more and breathing in her scent. It had changed over the months; the familiar scent of pregnancy and impending motherhood wrapped about her like a cloak, but underneath it all, was the scent he loved most- roses, a warm Dublin breeze, the smell of fresh baked bread, for his wife insisted on helping the servants in the kitchen, and it was a common sight- her caked in flour, kneading dough as she listened to Molly, the young kitchen maid, chatter away._

 _"I love ye, Timothy Michael. So, so m'ch."_

 _He slowly lifted his head, meeting her gaze before kissing her once more, deeply, tenderly. A knock sounded on the door, followed by a voice. "'tis time t' go, Mrs. O'Shea. Th' pris'ner mus' be ret'rned t' 'is cell."_

 _She winced. Prisoner. He wasn't a prisoner, he was her husband. She turned back to him as the door opened. "No. I won' le' ye-"_

 _He took her face in her hands, brushing her tears away. "'ush, Zipporah. No nee' f'r tears. I's 'ccepted me fate long ago."_

 _She shook her head. "No! D' they no' und'erstan', ye're me husband-"_

 _He took her hands, pressing firm kisses to her knuckles before taking her face once more in his gentle grasp. "I love ye, Zipporah Grace O'Shea. M're tha' life an' death itself. No' ev'n a firin' squad coul' part us. Death 'imself will no' keep ye fr'm me. O' tha' I promise. Death will no' keep us 'part."_

 _The door swung open, and she turned to find the guard making his way into the room, Kit stood in the hall, tears sliding down her cheeks. The man grabbed her arm, gently pulling her away, for he understood the precious cargo she carried within her, and was not so heartless to harm a woman a week from giving birth. She tangled her hands in her husband's, meeting his gaze. "Timothy-"_

 _He brought her hand to his lips for one last kiss before doing the same to her mouth and stepping back, breaking their hold. "I love ye, Zipporah O'Shea. 'twill go t' me grave whisp'rin' yer name an' proclaimin' me love f'r ye. I pr'mise."_

 _She tried her hardest to pull away, but the guard held strong, and after several minutes of struggling, the guard gently pushed the mother-to-be into her sister-in-law's arms. The door slammed shut and locked, leaving Timothy Michael in faint darkness, save for the window and the weak sunlight streaming through. Kit held tight to Zipporah, fear that the babe would come then and there if its mother did not get control of herself in her heart._

 _Eventually, she manged to calm her frantic sobs, and Kit wrapped an arm tight around her waist, taking her other hand. "C'me, Zippi, we 'ave t' go." But the young woman dug her heels in, turning back. "Zipporah, now."_

 _"I canna-"_

 _"Now, Zipporah." She leaned close, lips gently brushing her sister-in-law's ear. "Me broth'r woul' no' wan' 'is las' m'mory o' ye t' be this. Please, Zipporah." After several minutes, the young mother allowed herself to be led from the gaol, turning back one last time, hoping for a glimpse of her beloved husband._

Tim bolted upright, his heart in this throat, and it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Both he and Sarah and taken a couple of the guest rooms- until they could get everything situated in their rooms- and he found himself drawn to the darkness outside. He sat up, running a hand through his hair. After a moment, he got up, going to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. As he made his way back to his room, he stopped, gaze drawn to the stairs.

A glass of water wouldn't hurt. As he made his way downstairs and into the parlor, heading towards the kitchen, he stopped. Voices were coming from the kitchen, as well as the smell of fresh baked bread. Cautiously, he peeked around the door frame, eyes widening at the sight before him.

A bustling kitchen, filled to the brim with cooks and maids and servants, like something out of a period drama. A young maid was chattering away, and there beside her, in a muslin dress of soft lilac, her dark hair pulled back in a bun, was a young woman kneading dough as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She said something to the maid, who giggled, before turning to grab something off a shelf above her, and it was then that Tim saw the very prominent swell that gently pushed the skirt of her dress out. Suddenly, it was very clear who this young woman, down in the kitchen, making bread with the servants as though she were a common scullery maid and not the young mistress of the house, was.

 _Zipporah._

 _"'tis th' mas'er 'cited f'r th' new babe, Mis'ress?"_

His great-great-grandmother laughed, sprinkling flour onto the dough and then brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, leaving a mark across her forehead. She reached down, cradling the bottom of her belly, one hand moving to stroke gently against the soft mound, leaving streaks of flour to mark her dress. _"'tis nev'r been more 'cited, I think, Molly. Timothy Michael 'twoul' be furious, were 'e t' catch me dow' 'ere, instea' o' up restin'."_

 _"'ow much long'r, Mis'ress?"_

Zipporah sighed, stroking her belly again, a smile tugging at her lips. _"A month. i' canna c'me soon 'nough. I'ma tir'd o' me 'usband treatin' me like glass."_

 _"He cares f'r ye, Mis'ress. 'tis why 'e treats ye so."_

Tim soon found himself the object of Zipporah's dark gaze; though she never stopped stroking her belly, she didn't hide the smile tugging at her lips as she laid eyes on her great-great-grandson. _"Aye, I s'pose 'e does."_

"Timmy?" He jumped, turning to find Sarah behind him. "Sorry. What are you doing down here?"

"I could ask you the same, Sarah." She blushed.

"I wanted a glass of water."

"I came down for the same, but-" He turned back, but the images had faded, leaving the kitchen in its wake.

"But?"

He shook his head, taking her hand and tugging her towards the stairs. "Nothing. Never mind. Come on. Let's go back to bed."


	18. Chapter 18

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

"Do you think there's anything here that might help us in regards to the family tree?" Tim asked the next morning as Sarah shuffled into the kitchen and plunked down at the table. Moira had returned home the night before, promising to be back the next afternoon, leaving Kathleen and her children to the house.

" _Poss'bly._ A _lo' o' th' ol' pho'o_ albums are _tuck'd 'way_ in _th'_ attic."

"Attic?" Kathleen nodded, getting up and fixing a cup of coffee before setting it in front of her daughter, who nodded in thanks amid a yawn. "This place has an attic?"

"One _o' th' f_ ew _tha'_ does. Sleep well, Sarah?"

The girl glared at her mother. "Something kept me up last night. I think there was a party going on downstairs. I kept hearing music and laughter. At one point I thought I heard Ragtime. Or maybe Jazz."

A tiny smile tugged at Kathleen's lips, for she knew exactly who and what it was. " _'tis 'appy ye're_ back is all." She replied, sipping her coffee.

 _"Who?"_ Tim asked, meeting his mother's gaze. Kathleen shrugged.

" _Th' 'ouse_."

"The _house_?" An eyebrow rose. "Houses don't get happy. They don't throw parties in the middle of the night-"

"You heard it too?" Sarah asked, starting in surprise. Tim nodded.

"- or have the dead matriarch of the family show up every five minutes." He grumbled, for everywhere he turned, he seemed to see Zipporah out of the corner of his eye, as though she were stalking him. His mother chuckled softly.

" _'tis jus' makin'_ sure _ye're_ really _'ere_ , Zippi is."

"How very _Rose Red_ of her." Tim muttered, sipping his coffee. "Is she going to make us help her build too?"

Kathleen glared at her son, taking the newspaper she'd been flipping through and tapping him lightly on the head with it. " _Ye 'ave_ been _watchin_ ' too much TV, Timothy Michael."

Though Kathleen had been a mere teenager when she'd given birth to her son, she'd had enough sense to know of whom she wished to name her newborn baby after. And so, hours after giving birth, she'd asked Zipporah for her blessing. She still remembered the moment the matriarch had entered the bedroom, how her dark eyes had filled with tears and how, even at eighty-five, the old Irishwoman had moved with a grace very few of today's youth possessed as she made her way towards her great-granddaughter and her new great-great-grandson.

 _""ave ye though' o' a name?"_

 _Kathleen nodded, meeting her great-grandmother's eyes. "Aye. I... wish t' name 'im aft'r..." She blushed, glancing down at her baby boy, only a few hours old._

 _Throughout the entire labor and delivery, Kathleen had felt their presence; surrounded, not only by her sisters and mother, but by the O'Shea women of generations past. She, like so many women in the family, had delivered her child at home, in the house with the red door and iron knocker. She resented her grandfather changing their name, simply because he was too scared to embrace his ancestry, and by turning his back on the O'Shea family, he was turning his back on all they had fought for, all they stood for. She wanted no part of it. Though she was a McGee by marriage, she was an O'Shea by blood, as was her son, and the O'Shea blood far outweighed the McGee._

 _She turned her exhausted gaze to her grandmother. "I wish t' name 'im aft'r great-gran'fath'r." Zipporah's gaze filled with tears. "'twill no' r'place 'im, nev'r r'place 'im." She turned her gaze back to the baby. "Bu' 'e needs a goo', strong name, wit' yer blessin', o' course."_

 _Zipporah reached out, brushing her fingers through Kathleen's hair, memories of when her darling Nellie had been born, and how excited her husband had been, for a first child was always the one that set the heart racing. "O' course ye 'ave me blessin', Kathleen Helen." The teenager breathed a sigh of relief, leaning over to lay the baby in Zipporah's arms._

 _The matriarch turned her gaze to the newborn as he whimpered in her arms. "Shh, 'ush, Timothy Michael, no nee' f'r tears." Her great-granddaughter lay back among the pillows, reaching up to take her husband's hand. "Ye are nam'd aft'r a grea' man, a goo', strong man, wh' fough' t' free our b'loved I'eland near seven'y years ago. 'tis a 'ero o' th' East'r Risin', yer great-great-gran'fath'r, an' ye shoul' be prou' t' carry 'is name. Jus' as ye shoul' be prou' t' carry th' O'Shea bloo' in yer veins." The baby stared up at her with unfocused eyes, and she stifled a sob. "Destin'd f'r grea' things, ye are, as yer gran'fath'r was." She brushed a soft kiss to the baby's head. "We'come t' th' fam'ly, littl' O'Shea. Our littl' Timothy Michael."_

"I just want to know why they insist on keeping us up at all hours of the night. "Don't they know we just got off a trans-atlantic flight-"

"They're dead, they don't have any concept of time." Tim muttered against his coffee cup. "And what's worse, I don't think they care."

Kathleen stood, going to the stove and pouring another cup. _"Ye bes'_ keep _yer_ voices down, both _o' ye_." The kids turned to her. " _'tis_ always _list'nin_ '." She looked around, green gaze darting about. Because she had spent her childhood, her teenage and early adulthood in this house, she was more in tune with the ways the walls whispered and the house seemed to shift and adjust, even in daylight. She had grown up seeing the ghosts of generations past walk the halls of the three-story home, heard the soft voices at night, felt the fingers of long-dead relatives stroke along her back or through her hair when she least expected it. The laughter of long-dead children was often heard, and the smell of whiskey and roses- especially strong after Zipporah passed in eighty-six- was always there, making its presence known when desired.

"What is the rest of the family going to do? Disown us?" Tim asked, turning to the doorway. He just caught the skirt of a lilac gown disappearing around the corner, and had a feeling Zipporah was skulking around somewhere.

" _Ye d' no'_ know this _'ouse_ like I _d'_." Kathleen whispered. " _D'spite me gran'fath'r changin'_ our name, _me_ parents still _liv'd 'ere a'_ Zippi's _ins'stence. 'An O'Shea by bloo' is still an O'Shea. An' nothin' will change tha''_ \- as she _us'd t'_ say."

"So... what are we?" Tim asked, as his mother turned back to them. "O'Sheas or McGees?"

 _"B'th."_ Kathleen replied; the scent of roses began to tickle her nose, and she let her gaze pass by her son, catching Zipporah's as she stood by the doorway. _"Bu'_ _th'_ O'Shea is _strong'r_ in _ye tha' th'_ McGee. _Ye've r'turn'd; an' th'_ O'Sheas _'twill no'_ hesitate _t'_ claim their own."

"What does that mean?" Sarah asked, suddenly worried for her mother's sanity.

Directly behind the kids, Zipporah reached down, cradling the great swell of her belly, tears in her eyes. She reached for the kids, but stopped, meeting Kathleen's gaze, before moving away from the wall, turning and fading into the sunlight that shone through the windows. Kathleen sighed, watching her great-grandmother go. She turned back to her children.

" _I'_ means," She bit her lip. _"Tha' no matt'r th'_ McGee _bloo'_ in _ye, th'_ O'Shea is _wha'_ calls _t' 'em. Ye_ may be McGees, _bu' firs' an' f'remos', ye're_ O'Sheas. _An'_ O'Sheas _prot'ct_ their own. _Ev'n fr'm_ beyond _th'_ grave."


	19. Chapter 19

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

"You sure you'll be okay, _Mams_?"

Kathleen chuckled, gently pushing her son out the door. "I'll be fine. Now go. _'ave_ fun."

With a quick kiss to her cheeks, the siblings rushed down the steps, hurrying down the street into the heart of Dublin; it had taken all morning, but eventually, Kathleen had managed to convince her children to go out and explore the city; to reacquaint themselves with their childhood home. As she shut the door behind her, she sighed, grateful that they were both out of the house for a few hours. She loved her children, she really did, but she needed time to herself.

After fixing a cup of tea, she made her way up to the attic. It was dusty as most attics were, and there was weak sunlight coming in through the window at the back, but after some searching she found what she was looking for: the boxes marked _'family photos'_ and _'important papers_ '. Eventually, she managed to get both boxes downstairs and set on the dining room table, where the diary and family tree lay. After making her way into the living room and turning on the television for background noise, she returned to the dining room, sorting through the photographs, before stopping.

A family portrait.

She quickly scanned the back for names, and felt her breath hitch.

 _James Robert O'Shea and family, April, 1912._

She pulled the family tree towards her, unfolding it, gaze going back to Timothy Michael. Yes, there it was.

 _James Robert and Elizabeth Margaret O'Shea._

Elizabeth had been born in eighteen-seventy-two, meaning she would have been twenty when Timothy Michael was born, and roughly twenty-two when Kit was born. Aileen and Fiona had been eighteen-ninety and eighteen-eighty-eight, respectfully, meaning Elizabeth had been eighteen when she had Aileen, and sixteen when she had Fiona. But given the time, it wasn't uncommon.

Kathleen quickly did the math in her head. Elizabeth would have been forty when the portrait was taken, and slowly, she let her gaze wander over each member of the family.

She and Robert were seated in the center, with their children and their respective spouses and families around them. Fiona, her husband Eamon, and their two surviving daughters Evelyn and Moira stood beside her father; the girls had their hair held back with white ribbons, and both held tight to their parents' hands as they leaned against them. Aileen, her husband Samuel and son Nicholas were in the center behind her parents; Niicholas, a mere boy of three years old, was in his mother's arms, head resting against her shoulder.

Her gaze drifted down below, to where Kit and her husband Jackie were seated at Robert and Elizabeth's feet. Kit sat beside her husband, holding tightly to his hand, long red hair pulled back. It was evident, the pain in her eyes; Kathleen hoped the rumors were true, and that Kit had had a chance to become a mother like she so desperately longed to be.

Her eyes were drawn to the only son of the O'Shea family, who stood beside Elizabeth. Timothy Michael had his arm wrapped tight around his wife's waist, and Zipporah held their only daughter, Kathleen's namesake- Kathleen Helen, called Nellie- in her arms. The baby was a mere few months old; no older than seven it appeared, for Zipporah had conceived not long after their wedding, and bore the little girl in the fall of nineteen-eleven. Zipporah rested her head against her husband's shoulder, her dark eyes staring out at the her great-great-granddaughter, the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips. Zipporah's beauty was renowned, but looking at this family portrait, Kathleen understood why Timothy Michael had fallen in love with her; not just her beauty, but her spirit shone through the fading photograph.

She gently set it aside before pulling out others; old images from the twenties and thirties, other small tintypes from the early turn of the century. She stopped, however, when she felt her hand close around something. Upon pulling it out, she realized it was a locket.

 _For my beloved Zippi,_

 _Love, Timothy Michael_

Gently, she popped the locket open, a photograph of her great-grandfather stared back at her, as well as a lock of red hair, and suddenly Kathleen understood what this was.

A mourning locket.

Zipporah had taken the locket her husband had given her and turned it into a piece of mourning jewelry, placing the strands of her husband's hair under a thin sheet of crystal. If Kathleen remembered right, this was the same locket Zipporah used to wear when she was a child, growing up in this house. So what everyone said was true, Zipporah never go over her husband's death.

As she set the locket aside, she pulled out a stack of photographs, on in particular catching her eye. An engagement portrait.

The young woman was dressed in a simple muslin dress that reached her ankles, and stood tucked within the arms of her intended, one hand resting against his heart as she stared at the camera, her long dark hair pulled back in a bun. He stood beside her, his arms around her waist, holding her to him as though he feared someone else might take her.

She knew instantly who they were. There was no mistaking, for her son appeared to be a carbon copy of his great-great-grandfather. And the woman in his arms... only one woman possessed such dark beauty; she was the only brunette- not a single brunette had been born to the O'Sheas since Nellie back in nineteen-eleven, a feat in and of itself.

She turned it around, not at all surprised to see the names written on the back.

 _Engagement of Timothy Michael O'Shea and Zipporah Grace Pearse, nineteen-aught-nine._

They had married a year later.

She sighed, setting it down before turning to the other box and beginning to sift through it. Marriage certificates, birth certificates, graduation diplomas, deeds to land and other papers deemed important. A moment passed as she sifted through each of the certificates, before finally stopping on one in particular.

 _Fourteen May nineteen-sixteen._

 _Place: Kilmainham Gaol_

 _Cause of Death: Execution by firing squad._

Her gaze darted back up to the name on the death certificate, and her heart stalled, realizing what it was.

 _Timothy Michael O'Shea._


	20. Chapter 20

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

 _"Pick them out, every one of them. Show them to me, these... leaders of this insurrection."_

 _They gathered together, the rebels of the Rising, as the British went through, picking the leaders out one by one like a cat playing with a mouse. He glanced at Patrick Pearse, a cousin of his beloved wife, and for the briefest of moments, he hated that he had been brought into this..._

 _Wha' I woul'n't give t' be 'ome wit' ye, Zippi. He shook the thought away as the man began pulling out the leaders of the rising._

 _"Pearse."_

 _Patrick was yanked away from Timothy's side, and shoved aside; he glanced back at the young man who had made his cousin so happy, and gave him a brief nod._

 _"MacDonagh. Thomas Clarke."_

 _Timothy glanced at Eamon; the older man was calm, relaxed almost, as he watched his fellow ringleaders be pulled from the crowd._

 _"Connelly."_

 _The man kicked Connelly's shattered ankle, causing the injured man to cry out, and Timothy Michael balled his hands into fists, as the British forced the injured leader to his feet._

 _"Plunkett. Daly. O'Hanrahan."_

 _After several minutes, the man stopped, pointing his cane. "Éamon de Valera." Timothy Michael watched in silence as de Valera walked calmly towards the men. He released a soft sigh._

 _An' f'r yer part... He thought, as the man continued to pick out the leaders before he once more stopped. Slowly, Timothy Michael lifted his gaze, meeting the Brit's on the other side of the group of men and women._

 _"Timothy Michael O'Shea."_

 _The crowd parted slightly, and the young man released the breath he'd been holding. Slowly, he made his way forward, before being roughly grabbed by the front of his shirt, the end of the cane held to his throat. "A bloody stockyard foreman..." He shoved his roughly; two officers grabbed him roughly by the arms, and led him away with the other men. The uniforms they wore were dusty, covered in gunpowder and blood. At that moment, he wished nothing more than to be home with his wife and children._

 _They were transported to Killmainham Gaol, west of the city centre of Dublin. Each man was placed in a cell by themselves, given a cot and a small table. The diary Timothy Michael had kept record in for the last year was returned to him, and he soon settled by the window, finding that the writing was the only thing that kept his thoughts of what was to come at bay._

 _... t' be cour' marshall'd an' tried f'r treas'n 'gainst th' Brit'sh crown, or wha'ev'r they see fit t' blame on us. I 'ave been plac'd wit'in a cell barely 'ble t' 'old one, le' 'lone six o' sev'n as I saw when 'twas brough' pas' the oth'r pris'ners. Both men an' women res'de 'ere, 'waitin' t' be marshall'd or worse. I only 'ope Kit 'twas able t' escape. I fear me pred'ction shall c'me true. 'twill no' live t' mee' me son._

 _He looked up, quickly setting the diary and pen aside as he got up, going to the door. But it was only the crying of hundreds of voices in the night, nothing more. Silently, he returned to the cot, picking up the diary and pen once more._

 _I know I shall no' live. Wha'ev'r fate 'as in store f'r me 'twas writt'n long ago an' shall no' be chang'd. I knew wha' woul' 'appen when I 'greed t' 'elp; 'tis only meself t' blame. An' ye', me fam'ly is bein' pun'shed as well f'r me actions, if no' all future gen'rations o' O'Sheas. 'tis them I fear f'r. Why shoul' th' future o' me fam'ly be sham'd simply b'cause I chose t' figh' f'r a free I'eland?_

Tim looked up at the memory faded; they stood in an area of Dublin, not far from the courthouse. "This was the place."

Sarah turned back to her brother. "What did you say, Timmy?"

He met her gaze. "The... the rebels... the leaders of the Rising. This is where the British picked them out, and... and Timothy Michael, he... he was one of them." He grabbed Sarah's shoulders, shaking her gently. "That's it! Sarah, I know what Timothy Michael was involved in! Easter Rising!"

His sister shook her head, brow furrowing. "There's no way, Timmy-"

"Of course there is," He replied, reaching into his bag for the diary, only to realize he'd left it at home. "Come on!" He grabbed her hand, tugging her through the streets of Dublin and back to the house.

"I still fail to see-"

"Sarah," He turned to her. "If he was one of the leaders of the Rebellion, and he kept a diary, he probably wrote about it. Or at least mentioned it in passing!"

They dashed back through the city, before finally reaching the house they both had been born in. As the siblings dashed up the steps and Tim grabbed the handle, the door was yanked open, Kathleen on the other end. "Thank God _. 'twas 'bout t'_ call _ye._ "

"I think we figured it out, _Mams_ \- what... what Timothy Michael was involved in."

"So _'ave_ I." She replied, shutting the door softly behind her children. She led them into the dining room, pulling out what she'd found. "I brough' th' boxes ou' o' th' attic, an' was searchin' thru 'em when I came 'cross this." She picked up the certificate, holding it out to her son. The siblings gathered together, silently reading the type on the certificate.

" _'Fourteen May nineteen-sixteen. Execution by firing squad for crimes against the British crown... Timothy Michael O'Shea, aged twenty-four years.'_ "

 _"What?"_ Tim looked up at his mother as Sarah took the certificate from her brother to study it.

"Wait a minute, so... so Tim... Timothy Michael... _great-great-grandfather_ Timothy Michael... was... was executed... by the British... for his... his part in... in the Easter Rebellion?" All Kathleen could do was nod.


	21. Chapter 21

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

"So... so great-great-grandfather took part in the Rebellion and died for his part in it." Tim yawned, and Kathleen chuckled softly, running her fingers through her son's hair.

" _Aye,_ it _'ppears_ so." She whispered, setting the death certificate side. They'd spent the last several hours going through everything and cross-referencing things in the diary with the papers that had been tucked away in the attic. So far, everything matched up, or appeared to, anyway. She glanced at the clock on the wall.

Ten minutes past ten.

"We all _bes' ge' t'_ bed. We've been _a'_ this all _nigh' an' 'twill_ still be _'ere_ in _th' mornin'._ " She stood, gathering everything into a neat pile and setting it beside the diary and tree. After minor protest that ended in yawns, Tim and Sarah headed upstairs. Kathleen put the mugs in the sink, letting her mind wander, before she turned off the light and followed the kids upstairs.

As soon as Tim's head hit the pillow, he was out like a light.

 _Her movements were slow, sluggish almost, for the weight she carried before her. Kit would have her hide if she caught her out of bed- for her pains could begin any time now- but she couldn't stay confined to that room another moment. It was a long, slow process, moving down the stairs, but eventually, she made it into the parlor, and slowly made her way into the kitchen._

 _"Is ev'rythin' a'ight, Mis'ress?" Molly, the young kitchen maid asked, as the others politely excused themselves. She nodded, resting her hands against her back._

 _"I jus'... need'd t'... t' no' be in tha' room any long'r, Molly, 'tis all." She replied, releasing a slow breath. The pain in her lower back was starting to annoy her; she had an inkling of what it was, but chose to ignore it. "Confin'd t' a room f'r th' las' four days... no' 'llowed t' ev'n see me own chil'ren... rid'culous." She muttered, making her way to the stove, but Molly beat her to it. "I simply wan' a cup o' tea, Molly."_

 _"Le' me ge' i' f'r ye, Mis'ress." With a sigh, the young woman nodded, stepping back to allow her to work._

 _"Shoul' ye no' be res'in'?" Zipporah turned at the voice, a look of annoyance gracing her pretty features._

 _"I canna spen' 'noth'r mom'nt in tha' bed, Fiona." The oldest O'Shea daughter chuckled softly, making her way towards her sister-in-law. "twill go crazy, an' then ye will 'ave t' sen' me t' Bethlem in Lond'n."_

 _"Where th' babe shall be born in 'orrid cond'tions. No, 'tis bes' ye r'main 'ere." Fiona replied jokingly, though there was something masked within her tone. Something Zipporah only barely picked up on, but didn't push. She hissed, closing her eyes tight against the pain radiating throughout her lower back, mouth screwing up in an attempt to keep quiet, but Fiona had noticed, as had Molly and Kit, who had entered with Aileen, and stopped the conversation they were having at the look on Zipporah's face._

 _"Zippi? Wha's wrong?"_

 _"'tis nothin'." She replied when able to catch her breath again, and she took the cup from the maid with a soft smile._

 _"Are ye sure?" Aileen asked, green eyes filling with worry. She remembered the day her own son had been born back in aught-nine, how she'd tried to deny the pain making itself known, until the breaking of her waters had made it plane as day what she was experiencing. "Zippi, if yer time 'as c'me-"_

 _"It 'asn't, Aileen." Zipporah snapped, meeting her sister-in-law's gaze. "'tis jus' fr'm... fr'm th'... weigh' o' th' babe... nothin' m're-" She bit her lip, another pain making itself known, and she dropped the cup; it shattered at her feet._

 _"Zipporah?"_

 _"Zippi, wha' is it?"_

 _Fiona took her sister-in-law's hand, by the strength of her grip, she knew what her brother's wife had been denying. "Yer time's c'me, 'asn't it?"_

 _Zipporah shook her head, teeth digging into her lower lip, as she reached down to cradle the bottom of her belly. "No... it canna be... Timothy is no' 'ome..." She let out a cry as her sisters exchanged glances, and pulled her hand back from the bottom of her belly. Her fingers were wet, the material of her dress soaked. She could feel the water at her feet, as it ran down her legs in rivulets; try as she might to deny it, her body was working against her._

 _"Yer wat'rs 'ave broken." Fiona whispered, pulling her close and gently running a hand through her sister's hair. Molly set the broom aside._

 _"I'll fetch th' midwife, Mrs. Phillips." Fiona nodded as the young maid rushed off, before turning to her younger sisters. "We bes' ge' 'er back upstairs-"_

 _"No' th' birthin' room, Fiona. 'tis silly Victorian sup'rstition. Th' babe shall no' be born devian' if 'tis born in th' same bed 'twas conceiv'd in." Kit replied, and Fiona chuckled._

 _"'twas goin' t' say, ge' 'er back upstairs an' make sure she's comf'rtable, f'r God only knows 'ow long 'til this babe 'rrives." Kit blushed, but quickly nodded as Aileen took Zipporah's other hand and her two older sisters helped the laboring young mother back upstairs. She stood in the kitchen, gaze moving to the water on the floor, and a twinge of envy tugged at her heart._

 _"Sarah Katherine!"_

 _She quickly grabbed a few towels and darted upstairs, bursting into the room to find Fiona and Aileen on either side of Zipporah, who was sitting up among the blankets of her and Timothy Michael's marriage bed. They'd helped her to remove her dress and undergarments, leaving her in only her shift, which was pushed up to her thighs. Her dark hair was falling out of the bun she'd placed it in, strands clinging to her neck and cheeks, and she let a groan escape between her clenched teeth as she dug her nails into Fiona and Aileen's hands. She'd closed her legs, and tried her hardest to ignore the contractions working through her body. It was in that moment that Kit realized just how tiny Zipporah was. For a tiny, little wisp of a girl to bear three children... to grow so big when she was so, so tiny..._

 _"Don' jus' stan' there, Sarah! 'elp us!" Fiona snapped, forcing her youngest sister to rush to the basin and pour fresh water into it, soaking one of the towels before she wrung it out and returned to the bed. "Wha' 'as gott'n int' ye t'day, Sarah Katherine? D' ye no' no'ice our Zipporah's gone int' labour?"_

 _The younger woman didn't answer, instead, she reached over, dabbing at her sister-in-law's skin, brushing it against her lips and down her neck, over the slightly exposed skin of her heaving bosom. Zipporah let out a whine, pulling away from Kit as another contraction started. "Where's th' mi'wife?" Aileen asked, cradling Zipporah's hand in both of hers. "Shh, 'tis okay, Zippi. 'twill be ov'r soon."_

 _"D' no'... lie t' me, Aileen Elizabeth. This babe... 'twill no' c'me... f'r hours..."_

 _Eventually, they heard footsteps on the stairs, and Molly burst into the room, the midwife following. "Ah, Mrs. O'Shea, I see yer time 'as c'me. Thank ye, Molly." Without another word, the maid left, scampering down the stairs as the midwife shut the door after removing her coat and setting her bag down and making her way to the basin to quickly wash her hands. "Shall we 'ave a look? See 'ow far ye are?" Kit scampered away as the older woman made her way towards the bed. She climbed up on it, pushing the shift Zipporah wore up slightly before checking the labouring mother's progress. "Aye, well, 'tis still early. I susp'ct th' babe will no' c'me f'r a few hours a' leas'."_

 _And for a few hours was right._

 _From six that morning, when her waters had broken over the kitchen floor, until four that afternoon, Zipporah was caught in the unending pain of labour, as the contractions worked through her body, turning her insides to jelly and making her half-sick, as the pain made her delirious with panic and fear, as she screamed for her husband, begging Fiona or Aileen or Kit to fetch him for her. At one point, she grabbed Kit's wrist, tugging the younger woman close. "Please, Sarah! He nee's t' be 'ere! Bring 'im 'ome! Please!" Kit had tugged herself out her sister-in-law's grasp, stumbling back until she landed on the floor, too horrified to speak. She looked up at Fiona, who simply shook her head, the meaning clear,_

 _There's nothin' we can d' f'r her._

 _Zipporah then proceeded to curl onto her side, wrapping her arms around her belly and pull her knees as close to her chest as she could, sobs wracking her small frame. The sight of their sister-in-law, normally so strong, reduced to tears in the middle of labour unnerved all three sisters, though they knew it wasn't just the familiar pain of childbirth that was causing this, but something much, much worse. Yes, labour and childbirth was one mass of endless pain all in the effort to bring a tiny, defenseless being into the world that was more parasitic than human, and yes, for both Aileen and Fiona, the pain had been almost unbearable, but this-_

 _It was as though the very fabric of Zipporah's soul was dying, though neither would ever admit it._

 _Her labour continued, the contractions getting closer and closer together, until they slid one into the other, trapping Zipporah in an endless ring of pain. Among her screams, the midwife managed to check the young mother, pressing gently at her opening, and finding the babe's head appear and then disappear with each contraction. Eventually, after several strong contractions, she could feel the head against her fingers, and met Zipporah's gaze. "Th' babe's beginnin' t' 'ppear, Mrs. O'Shea."_

 _Over the next hour or so, the babe slowly began to crown, and Zipporah clung tight to Fiona and Aileen's hands, begging them to make the burning stop. She kicked out at one point, in a weak attempt to end her torment, and her screams echoed off the walls of the house, embedding themselves forever in the wood and stone. It would be these screams that would one day wake her great-great-grandchildren from their sleep, but at that moment, they were simply the screams of a mother trapped in labour._

 _It was not uncommon for labour and childbirth to last most of the day; a woman was lucky if her labour was short and the childbirth even shorter. Zipporah was not that lucky; her two previous births had been as long if not longer than this, and there had been a point during the birth of her daughter where she had nearly lost her life, as was to common at the time. But Zipporah was strong, and Death would not come for her for another seventy years._

 _With her shift pushed up just slightly over her belly, the midwife was able to focus on the young mother's progress. She gently rested her fingers against the babe's crown, a good portion of it was visible from within its mother's opening now, and after a moment, the midwife pushed the young woman's legs farther apart when she closed them again. "Ye canna stop this, Mrs. O'Shea! Th' babe's c'min'! Ye 'ave t' push!"_

 _Zipporah shook her head, letting out a scream as the next contraction slowly pushed the babe's head further out. "Don' make me, please!"_

 _"Yer body 'twill make ye, Zippi, no' us." Aileen replied, pressing a kiss to her sister-in-law's hand. Kit stayed back, worry and fear filling her green eyes at the scene before her._

 _"I know i' 'urts, Mrs. O'Shea, bu' th' only way 'twill stop is f'r ye t' push th' babe ou'!" Zipporah shook her head with a cry. "Aye! Ye mus'! 'tis ready t' be born, an' ye canna deny i' entr'nce int' th' world!"_

 _"Zippi, please! Me broth'r woul' no' wan' t' see ye like this! Please, Zippi, push! Yer babe needs t' c'me ou'!" Aileen begged, holding tight to the young mother's hand._

 _Zipporah shook her head violently; as long as she was still in control of her body, her child would not be born. For if it was born... if it was born, it meant her husband, her beloved Timothy Michael, was dead and gone from this world, and she would not, could not, bear the weight of such a loss. Her heart, her very soul, would not be able to take it, for he was her soulmate, her true love..._

 _Fiona watched, tears in her eyes; she understood what drove Zipporah to fight such a natural urge to expel her child from her body: hope. The hope her husband was still alive, the hope he would return to her, the misguided hope that if she just kept the babe within her womb, her husband's premonition would not come true. But she also knew that Zippi was fighting a losing battle; eventually, her body's natural desire would win out, and she would be forced to birth, no matter how she fought. Her child would arrive and her husband would die, as was the natural order of things, and no matter what she did, she couldn't stop it._

 _Another contraction; a scream escaped her throat and she dug her nails into Aileen and Fiona's hands, kicking out at the midwife and attempting to close her legs again, but all she managed was to clamp her knees shut; the midwife grabbed her ankles, forcing her legs apart once more. She understood Mrs. O'Shea's reluctance, she'd assisted many a labouring young widow in her time, but eventually, they all understood that it was for the good of the babe. But Mrs. O'Shea-_

 _It was common knowledge that Zipporah O'Shea was stubborn, set in her ways and often unwilling to see the compromise without hard facts. She had learned that the hard way when she'd assisted Mrs. O'Shea in her first birth; the young woman had read every book she could get her hands on in regards to childbirth- not that there were many out there- and had informed her that she did not need the assistance of a midwife and that she would make sure her husband paid her for her time. The young mother had quickly learned that when it came to childbirth and labour, she did not run the show, that she was at the mercy of her own body for however long labour lasted, and that she had no say in what happened at all while the babe was making its entrance into the world. Barely survived her first, she had, and she'd learned her lesson. But this-_

 _The young mother was putting her desires ahead of her child's, an action that would get both her and the babe killed if she didn't listen to reason; but her mind was so clouded by grief- anyone with two eyes could see it was grief she was fighting- she wasn't able to listen to anything or anyone. She knew a woman in the midst of grief was inconsolable, but a labouring young woman, at the brink of childbirth... near impossible to console._

 _"Lis'en t' me, Zippi." Fiona's voice was thick with tears, for she knew the pain her sister-in-law was going through, not just the labour, but the grief for her husband. Though not dead yet, it was only a matter of time before Timothy Michael drew his last breath, and she knew that when that happened, they all would feel it. She pulled the younger woman into her arms, pressing a firm kiss to her forehead. The young woman was dripping in sweat and shaking badly; the dark curls she was known for matted to her forehead, and every so often, Fiona caught a glimpse as her belly moved up and to the right whenever caught in a contraction- something, now that Fiona was no longer having children, she realized had happened with her as well. "Zippi, lis'en t' me!" She caught the other woman's chin in her hand. "Zipporah Grace O'Shea, ye lis'en t' me an' ye lis'en goo'!"_

 _The labouring young mother took a shaky breath. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a strangled scream of pain escaped her lips, and Fiona released her, letting the contraction pass before she spoke again. Zipporah pulled away from both her sisters-in-law, laying her hands on her belly, the material of her shift pushed up, exposing the great round swell that her and Timothy Michael's child had grown in for the last nine months. A strangled cry escaped her throat, and she kicked out at the midwife, who promptly forced her legs apart to examine her. "'tis near fully crown'd; it will no' wai'. Th' babe mus' c'me now, or neith'r i' n'r its moth'r will surv've."_

 _Fiona turned back to her sister-in-law, one thought crossing her mind, I 'alf fear 'tis wha' she wan's._

 _She grabbed Zipporah's shoulders, turning to her younger sister. "Aileen, 'elp me!" A moment passed, before the two women managed to get the young mother laying back amongst the pillows; Zipporah kicked out, but the midwife grabbed her ankles, forcing her to keep her legs spread as the contractions got stronger and stronger, until they seemed to rip through the young woman's body._

 _"No! No... le' me... please... Fiona... please... le' me... oh!" She let out a scream as another contraction grabbed her around the middle and twisted, ripping through her like a bullet through flesh._

 _"Look a' me, Zipporah! Zipporah Grace, look a' me!" Once she had her sister-in-law's dark gaze, Fiona continued. "Ye 'ave t'- aye, ye mus'!" She continued at the younger woman's shake of her head. "If ye don', yer babe will die an' ye will sur'ly die wit' it."_

 _"Then le' me!" Zipporah cried, tears trailing down her cheeks in rivers. "Le' me die, then!"_

 _"An' leave Nellie an' Joseph orphans, 'avin' los' both their fath'r, moth'r an' sibling? No."_

 _"A' leas' 'twill be wit'-"_

 _"Our broth'r woul' no' wan' ye t' die in this way, no' whe' ye can so eas'ly prev'nt i'! T' be so self'sh, Zipporah O'Shea! Timothy Michael woul' nev'r f'rgive ye!" She tugged her sister-in-law up, settling just slightly behind her so the mother could lean back against her if needed. "Ye're t' birth this babe, Zipporah, an' ye're t' birth i' now."_

 _Zippi groaned as another contraction followed hard and fast on the heels of the last ones; Fiona and Aileen took her hands, giving her their strength. For though they had not lost a husband, it was their brother who would very soon meet his death, and all four O'Shea women would need each other to survive such a devastating blow._

 _"Sarah!" Kit looked up from her place by the door; she had forced herself to watch, not having the strength to flee, and slowly lifted her head. After a moment, she joined the others on the bed, slipping behind Zipporah and wrapping her arms around her sister-in-law, just below her breasts, giving her support. She pressed a kiss to the dark curls and took a shaky breath. Another contraction ripped through Zipporah's small body, and she let out a scream that put the bean si to shame._

 _"'tis fully crown'd! Ye mus' push, Mrs. O'Shea! Now! Push!"_

 _Her body took control then, doing as the midwife ordered. Legs spread wide, her sisters supporting her, Zipporah Grace O'Shea felt her body bear down, pushing as hard as possible; slowly, the head began to come out. Another contraction, another push, and another and another until the head was fully out. On instinct, she went to close her legs, but the gentle brush against the babe's head forced her legs to fall open again, and she gasped for breath. "Keep pushin', Mrs. O'Shea! Th' 'ead 'tis ou', ye mus' continue t' push!"_

 _"Head... th'... th' 'ead..."_

 _"Aye, th' 'ead. Tha' means ye're almos' done, Zippi. Now push." Fiona replied, as Zipporah burst into tears, her body doing as told. Slowly, very slowly, a shoulder began to make its appearance, followed by the other. The pain got worse, to the point where she was certain she would not be able to live through it. But she continued, long into the early hours of the evening; the babe took its time arriving in the world, and through it all, Kit, Aileen and Fiona stayed be her side, giving her their strength, for she had none._

 _At half past six, the midwife looked up; the young mother was exhausted, for she'd been at this for hours. All four O'Shea women wore looks of exhaustion and worry, and she wished she could make it easy. As was, she would not give them half-truths. "Almos'." She informed them, meeting Zipporah's gaze. The labouring young woman was drenched in sweat, her small body shaking uncontrollably; she feared another child would kill the young woman, and so was silently grateful this was the last. "Ye're almos' there, Mrs. O'Shea."_

 _Zipporah nodded, closing her eyes briefly and resting her head back against Kit's shoulder. "I can'... I can'... please... don' make me..." She swallowed thickly, closing her eyes and tucking her head against Kit's neck._

 _"Zippi? Zippi!" Kit's green eyes widened in horror as she turned to Fiona, who reached over, gently tapping her sister-in-law's cheek._

 _"Zipporah. Zipporah! Op'n yer eyes! Zippi, loo' a' me! Zippi!" Slowly, dark eyes opened, meeting Fiona's, and the older woman sighed. "Ye're almos' done. Once th' babe's born, then ye can res'. C'me on, up ye ge'." Once she was sitting up again, the midwife nodded, meeting Zipporah's gaze._

 _"Push, Mrs. O'Shea!"_

 _The labouring young woman did as told, bearing down as hard as she could, a scream escaping her throat in the process. Despite how much she loved her husband, she would never forgive him for putting her in this position, for leaving her to suffer this horrendous pain alone. She would never forgive him for not being here- out pacing the hall, as he'd done with her last two births- to meet his child once this was finished. "Make i' st'p! Please!"_

 _"'twill st'p, Zippi, ye jus' nee' t' keep pushin'!" Aileen replied, squeezing her sister's hand in reassurance. Of all the O'Shea sisters, Aileen was perhaps the calmest. She saw things logically and rationally, and for that, with her critical eye and brilliant mind, was a brilliant mathematician- and so often helped her brother in the office at the stockyard. Married young, as was common, Aileen had done her duty and bore a son not long into their marriage; her husband had turned a blind eye when she chose other pursuits outside of the home, and she was hailed by many as the first female mathematician of Dublin, a title she carried with pride._

 _Another hour passed in slow agony, as the babe slowly made its appearance into the world. The midwife gently supported the babe's head; she glanced up at the four young women, catching Zipporah's gaze. "'tis almos' ou', Mrs. O'Shea. Push!" The mother did as ordered, struggling to catch her breath. "'gain, Mrs. O'Shea! Push!"_

 _"I can'!"_

 _"Aye, ye can! Now push!"_

 _She continued to bear down, minute after agonizing minute passed by at a snail's pace. Collapsing back into her sisters' arms, she shook her head, meeting Fiona's gaze. "Don' make me-"_

 _"Ye 'ave t', Zippi. 'tis almos' ov'r. C'me on." They helped her to sit up, being her support and strength as she straightened and bore down as hard as she could._

 _What felt like the ripping of skin suddenly overcame her; no, it was more like the shattering of her heart. She suddenly couldn't breathe, and feared her heart had stopped altogether. A quick glance at the others in turn told her they had also felt it, and despite her desire to ask, her body took control, forcing her to bear down once more as a scream ripped from her lungs-_

 _The screams of a newborn reached her ears, pushing through the fog and grief, and she collapsed back against her sisters. She looked from Fiona to Aileen. "'e... 'e's gone... Timothy Michael... me 'usband's gone..." Fiona nodded silently, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Fresh tears trailed rapidly down her cheeks as the girls seemed to curl around her, in an attempt to protect her. "Me... me babe..." She turned back to the midwife. "Pl... please..."_

 _The midwife made her way towards them, laying the baby, now cleaned, wrapped in a blanket, and severed from its mother, in her arms. "Congra'ulations, Mrs. O'Shea. Ye 'ave a son."_

 _Zipporah turned her gaze to the baby in her arms. "'e was righ'. Timothy Michael was righ'. We 'ave a son..." She met her sisters' gazes, before turning back to the babe in her arms. "Michael Thomas... I love ye, so much, Michael Tomas..."_

A scream jarred Tim from his sleep, and he sat up, trying desperately to figure out where it had come from. After quickly climbing out of bed and checking the halls- only to find Sarah doing the same- he returned to bed, figuring it would probably be best to go searching in the morning.


	22. Chapter 22

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

"Is there always screaming in the middle of the night?"

Kathleen looked up from her coffee as her children shuffled into the room. Both looked as though they hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, and she sighed with a soft shake of her head. Sarah dropped into a chair and Tim shuffled to the stove, pouring two cups and adding cream before handing one to his sister. She accepted it with a soft smile. Kathleen pushed what she'd been looking at towards them.

An old newspaper, dated fifteen May nineteen-sixteen.

 _LAST OF IRISH REBEL LEADERS EXECUTED!_

 _STOCKYARD foreman last to be executed at 7 pm._

 _A young stockyard foreman by the name of Timothy Michael O'Shea, was the last of the rebel leaders of the Easter Rebellion to be executed for crimes of treason against the British crown. O'Shea, of the well-known, well-off O'Shea family of centre Dublin, was picked out of a group, as a leader of the rebel insurrection that left Dublin in ruins and hundreds dead..._

"This is from the day after." Tim said, as Sarah pulled the article towards her. Kathleen nodded.

"Zippi _kep' ev'ry ar'icle_ she _coul' ge' 'er 'ands_ on _'bout th' r'bellion. Me_ guess... she _want'd t'_ know _wha' 'er husban' 'twas doin', an'_ since he _mos'_ likely _dinna tal' t' 'er-_ "

"She kept newspaper clippings to keep abreast of what he had gotten into." Sarah finished, meeting her mother's gaze.

"Wait, I'm confused." Tim took a seat between his mother and sister. "If the O'Sheas were so well-off, why did he work in a stockyard? He didn't _have_ to. He could just... do nothing, or see Europe-"

"If _ye_ were well-off, _woul' ye no'_ work, Timmy?"

He shook his head. "I'd still go to work, no matter the amount of money my family had."

" _Grea'-gran'fath'r_ Timothy Michael ' _twas o' th'_ era where _bein'_ born _int'_ money was... nice _an'_ all, _bu' 'ard_ work _'twas valu'd mos'- a' leas'_ in this _par' o'_ Dublin. _'is fath'r taugh' 'im th'_ value _o' an 'onest_ day's work."

"You work for what you earn. He wanted to earn his own way." Tim whispered, as Sarah pushed the newspaper back towards her mother and sipped her coffee. Kathleen nodded as Sarah spoke up.

"But... but both he and great-great-grandmother Zipporah were from wealthy families-"

"They still _b'lieved_ in _earnin'_ their _livin'_." Kathleen set her mug down, pulling out a small stack of what appeared to be early pay stubs from the turn of the century. " _'e start'd workin' a' th'_ stockyard as a-"

"Wait, stockyard? What _kind_ of stockyard?" Sarah asked.

Her mother blinked. "Meatpacking."

"Like Sinclair's _The Jungle_ , Sarah." Tim whispered, and she made a face, remembering reading _The Jungle_ in high school and how it had grossed her and half the English class out.

" _'e start'd ou'_ as a _pack'r_ , someone who _pack'd th' mea't aft'r slaught'r, an' ev'ntually work'd 'is_ way up _t'_ foreman." Kathleen pushed the stack of stubs towards her son.

"When did he start there?" Tim asked, picking them up and shuffling through them.

"Nineteen- _hundr'd-an'_ -eight. _Th'_ year _'e me_ ' Zipporah. Two years _b'fore 'e_ married _'er._ "

"They met when they were teenagers?" Sarah asked, as Kathleen pushed a few letters towards them. They were folded, the wax seals broken, the scent of roses still strong. Kathleen nodded.

" _Aye_ , they _di'. A'_ a friend's ball, _an'._.. as Zippi _'lways sai', ''twas love a' firs' sigh''._ They _go' engag'd_ in nineteen- _hundr'd-an'_ -nine, _an'_ were _marri'd_ in ten. Their _firs' chil',_ Kathleen Helen, _'twas_ born in _elev'n, an'_ their _firs'_ son-"

"Kathleen... Helen?" The siblings shared a glance, before turning to their mother. "Isn't your full name Kathleen-"

"Helen, _aye, 'tis. 'ho d' ye_ think I _'twas nam'd aft'r_?" Kathleen smiled softly at her children. " _Jus'_ as _ye_ were _nam'd aft'r_ Timothy Michael, _an' ye_ were _nam'd aft'r_ Kit, _Sarah Katherine_." The siblings shared another, wide-eyed glance. Neither knew their names had come from the family, they both just figured their names were chosen from a book, as so many children's names of their time were.

"So... I'm confused. Was Zipporah Jewish? Because that's a Jewish name." Sarah stated, picking up the photographs her mother handed her; images of Zipporah with her family, when she was a mere child or young woman. It was hard to believe, that the young girl with the wide bows in her hair staring out of the photographs would one day become her great-great-grandmother, the matriarch of the O'Shea clan.

"It's also Biblical, Sarah. Remember? in the Old Testament, Zipporah is Moses's wife. And if Zipporah's family were Irish, they were most likely either Protestant or Catholic, and so drew from the Bible when they named her."

"They were Protestant, and the O'Sheas Catholic." Kathleen replied, and Tim looked up, meeting her gaze.

"Then their marriage shouldn't have been allowed-"

 _"Bu'_ she _conv'rted_." Kathleen cut her son off, sitting back in her chair.

"All so she could marry great-great-grandfather?" Sarah asked, brow furrowing.

Their mother shrugged. "She _lov'd 'im. F'r_ Zippi, _conv'rtin'_ was _th'_ only way she _coul'_ marry _'im_." The siblings shared a glance, before Tim turned to the family tree, laid out on the table.

"So... if Timothy Michael was executed for his part in the rebellion.. where is his body? Isn't he buried in the family plot?"

Kathleen shook her head. _"Fr'm me und'rstandin', th'_ leaders _o' th'_ rebellion were..." She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "I think they wer _e buri'd_ at Arbour Hill Prison, _bu'_ I _coul'_ be wrong."

"Why isn't he buried in the family plot?" Kathleen shrugged. She'd asked that same answer for years; no one in the family had ever given her a straight answer, and after Zippi died, any mention of Timothy Michael faded from the family. It was as though the patriarch of the O'Sheas simply didn't exist.

" _'tis_ a _questi'n f'r yer_ _grea'-grea'-gran'parents 'emselves._ " She replied, gaze going to the tree. " _A' leas'_ we _kno' wha' 'appen'd t' 'im, sos_ maybe we _canna_ add back one _memb'r o'_ our _fam'ly_." She quickly scribbled lightly in pencil by his name,

 _Executed for part in Easter Rising_

Once done his mother was done, Tim turned to the other members of the family. "Now if we cann just find Kit, Aileen, and Fiona, maybe we can finish filling in the blanks." His mother nodded, the eraser of the pencil between her teeth. There was a niggling feeling in the back of her mind that Zipporah's beloved Timothy Michael wasn't done with his family yet.


	23. Chapter 23

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

 _He took a deep breath, watching the sky through the window. James Connelly and Seán Mac Diarmada were executed two days earlier, on the twelfth. And he'd sat in his cell and listened to the gunfire, as he comrades had fallen from the hail of British bullets. That left only him._

 _He turned back to the diary in his lap. This simple leather book that his baby sister had given him a year ago had recorded his days at the stockyard, his home life, the growth of his third and final child within his wife's womb. It carried his hopes, his dreams, his very fears, and the plans of a Rebellion. Silently, he pulled out the sheet of paper he'd torn from the back of the book, for there were only a few pages left, and unfolded it._

 _T' be r'turn'd t' th' custody o' me wife, Zipporah, upon the eve o' me death,_

 _Fourteen May, nineteen-sixteen._

 _\- Timothy Michael O'Shea, aged twenty-four years_

 _He folded the paper up again, before opening the book and flipping to the entry he'd been working on. Taking a deep breath, he returned pen to paper and resumed writing._

 _... 'tis nearly six in th' ev'nin'. By now, me b'loved Zipporah 'as prob'bly brough' our son int' th' world, an' is baskin' in th' glow o' mothe'r'ood. I knew, fr'm th' mom'nt I saw 'er, tha' she woul' one day bear our chil'ren, jus' as I knew tha' she is th' love o' me life, me soulmate. 'as provid'd me wit' so much joy ov'r th' years, me Zippi, tha' 'tis a shame we 'ave no' 'ad more tha' sev'n, f'r th' day she 'ccept'd me 'and, th' day she tol' me yes, tha' she 'twoul' marry me- tha' bless'd day we wen' walkin' 'long th' Cliffs, watchin' th' fog roll in an' breathin' in th' freshness o' th' sea air- 'twas th' day she made me th' 'appiest man in all o' I'eland._

 _Still, I rem'mb'r th' sigh' she made, wit' 'er 'air whippin' 'bout 'er face, th' sof' mat'rial o' 'er dress bein' tugg'd by th' wind, th' redness o' 'er cheeks an' th' smile tha' nev'r lef' 'er face... 'ad ask'd 'er fath'r's p'rmission t' take 'er f'r a drive, an' 'twas surpr'sed when 'e 'ad giv'n it. I susp'ct now, tha' 'e prob'bly knew wha' I 'twas plannin'. B'fore I'd ev'n go't th' words ou', she'd thrown 'er arms 'round me, cryin' a' th' top o' 'er lungs tha' she woul' marry me, tha' I 'twas c'rtain all o' I'eland 'ad 'eard o' our engagem'nt. I can say now, tha' was th' true star' o' me 'appiness..._

 _Tears filled his gaze, blurring the written words before him, and he took a deep breath, blinking them away. They rushed down his cheeks, tears that he had no idea of knowing mirrored his wife's as she found herself caught in the throes of a labour that would nearly claim her life. A moment passed, before he returned to his writing, forcing himself to remain calm._

 _... I shall carry th' images o' me wife wit' me t' me grave. 'er brilliant mind, dark, enchan'in' eyes, an' tha' smile I love so. Bu' wha' I shall cling t' is 'er voice, th' feel o' 'er body, an' th' beaut'ful swell o' our chil' growin' wit'in 'er, f'r I b'lieve those were when I fell in love wit' 'er mos'- th' months when she carri'd an' bore me chil'ren, th' real symbol o' our love. Call me r'mantic, call me 'opeless, bu' th' mem'ries o' me wife grown roun' wit' our chil'ren quicken me 'eart th' mos'. Zipporah is beaut'ful, aye, any man wit' two eyes canna see tha', bu' 'er beauty was only tha' much grea'er when she carri'd our chil'ren. 'tis tha' image, I wish t' keep wit' me f'rev'r._

 _He stopped writing, the sound of footsteps making their way towards his cell bringing him pause, and after a moment, he returned to his writing._

 _I go t' me grave knowin' tha' I did th' righ' thing. Tha' I fough' f'r an I'eland tha' will one day be free, tha' me chil'ren will one day continue th' figh' f'r Irish indep'ndence an' opefully ge' t' see th' free I'eland I will no' ge' t'. I can face th' firin' squad knowin' tha' I made th' righ' choice. An' while i' cos' me life wit' me darlin' Zippi, 'twoul' no' change a mom'nt o' it. Me mind is clear, me 'eart, fill'd only wit' love f'r me wife an' chil'ren, an' 'tis 'em I will carry wit' me int' th' aft'rlife._

 _The door swung open on its hinges, and he looked up, quickly shutting the book. "C'me on, up ye go. 'tis time."_

 _He stood, setting the diary and pen on the table, the slip of paper atop it. He turned to the guard, meeting his gaze. "R'turn it t' me wife, when I am gone. Please."_

 _The guard simply sneered at him, but the one who stood out in the hall, the young one, not much older than their young maid Molly, nodded to him, signifying that he heard the request and would honor it. The one who'd stepped into the room took his arm, walking him firmly out of the cell and down the catwalk. They passed several other prisoners, moving down the steps into the small courtyard._

 _A wall of sandbags sat waiting across the way, and several British snipers stood waiting. Four soldiers escorted him in, two held his arms, and two followed behind, each with a swatch of material in their hands. He glanced around quickly, his gaze landing on the priest. A moment passed, before the man made his way to the condemned. In a soft voice, he silently made the sign of the cross before Timothy Michael, who closed his eyes and released a breath; at least he would not go to his grave without last rites, no matter how swift they be. At least, he would be allowed some measure of religious peace before death came to him._

 _"They kno' no' wha' they do, chil'." The priest whispered, meeting the young man's gaze. Timothy Michael nodded, reaching for the priest's hands. The older man allowed him to grasp his hands, and he saw the tears misting the young Irishman's bright green eyes._

 _"Me wife. 'tis my diary, back in me cell, make sure she receives i'. I d' no' trus' th' guards t' d' as I ask." The priest nodded._

 _"O' course." He reached up, resting a hand against the young stockyard foreman's head, whispering a soft prayer of forgiveness. "In th' name o' th' Fath'r, th' Son, an' th' 'oly Ghos'." He gently made the sign of the cross on Timothy Michael's forehead before stepping back. "Go wit' God, me chil', an' may there be no m're suff'rin'."_

 _The guards yanked him away, walking him towards the sandbags. One quickly bound his hands behind his back with a swatch of cloth, and once done, the other turned him to face the snipers, taking the swatch he held and tying it around Timothy Michael's eyes. With his sight now limited, he focused only on what he could hear, feel, remember. Images of his family, his sisters, parents, his beloved wife and children filled his head._

 _Kit and her outspoken nature, Fiona and her quiet reserve, Aileen and her brilliant mind crossed his memory; memories of them growing up, the years they spent chasing each other as children through the backyard, or reading stories to each other before bed... yes, his darling sisters had doted on him, but they also did not hesitate to tell him when he was wrong, and he cherished those moments now, in this darkness of Kilmainham Gaol's courtyard._

 _Childish laughter filled his head as his daughter's beautiful curls and big eyes filled his mind; Kathleen Helen, his Nellie, his firstborn, his precious baby girl... from the moment Zipporah informed him of her condition, through the long nine months as the baby girl grew in her mother's womb, and the anxious, long, fear-filled hours he'd spent out in the hall after his wife had gone into labour that early fall evening, and continued to labour long into the early morning hours of the next morning, until finally, Fiona had slipped out into the hall, wary and sleep-deprived, a smile on her face as she made her way to him, reaching out to take his hands with the soft proclamation, "Yer babe is 'ere, Timothy Michael. Zippi 'as birth'd ye a healthy baby girl."_

 _He'd been thrilled at the news, gathering his sister into his arms and bursting into tears; it hadn't mattered that his wife had borne a daughter, to him, she was just as precious, if not more, than any son could ever be. When he'd finally be able to calm himself, Fiona had led him into the room, and he'd felt his knees go weak at the sight of his Zipporah, exhausted but radiant, laying back among the pillows, cradling their newborn daughter in her arms. When she'd started to apologize for not bearing a son, he'd rushed to her side, capturing her mouth in his, whispering against her lips that it didn't matter, that she was the most beautiful little girl in the world and she'd made him the luckiest man in all of Ireland. And these last five years he'd had the pleasure of watching his daughter grow into a darling little girl._

 _His thoughts turned to his firstborn son, Seán Joseph; though the babe was only a year, he still remembered the day Zipporah had told him that in nine months time they would have another little O'Shea to someday chase around the house. He had delighted in watching her belly swell, and often told her that the greatest gift she could ever give him was the chance to become a father. Joseph's birth had been just as long, just as nerve-wracking as Nellie's had been, and he'd been certain he'd worn a hole in the hallway floor that would send him crashing down to the first if the babe didn't make its appearance soon. It had been twelve- not as long as the fourteen with Nellie- agonizingly long hours that he'd paced, stopping every so often as his wife's screams had pierced the air, his heart leaping into his throat, as the irrational part of his mind screamed that the babe was killing her, that he'd surely lose her to fever, and the babe also if not careful. Finally, after hours of waiting, Aileen had slipped out of the room, grabbing his arm to stop him mid-pace, and he'd turned to her. Zippi had lost some blood, not much, she'd said, and the babe was fine- a healthy eight pound, eight ounce baby boy; only a pound smaller than his sister- and that she was asking for him._

 _He'd rushed into the room, to find Zipporah cradling a bundle in her arms, and his wife had looked up, leaning forward as he made his way to her, asking him to come meet his son. He'd joined her, tears filling his gaze as he stared at his son, before turning to his wife and gathering her in his arms, pressing a firm kiss to her neck. He'd thanked her repeatedly in soft whispers for giving him another beautiful little miracle, and she'd only smiled and kissed him back as the exhaustion from the birth had caught up with her. Joseph had grown in the two years since his birth, and he was now a rambunctious little boy who kept both he and his wife on his toes every chance he got. With his red hair and green eyes, he was the spitting image of his father, and seemed to possess more of his mother's feisty spirit than his father's._

 _And then there was this new babe, that would be in the world after he himself drew his last breath. He thanked God he was allowed the last nine months with his wife, that he was allowed to watch her belly grow and expand and feel their child move within her. The briefest of condensations crossed his mind; if he had just stayed out of it, turned them down when they asked, he would be there now, pacing the hallway outside as his wife once more went through the agony of childbirth; experiencing every anxious minute that passed by, every scream that escaped the room, that told him it was drawing closer and closer to her torment being over. If only he'd told them no._

 _He shook his head; no, he wouldn't change his actions for anything. His very actions had helped to wake the Irish up to the atrocities the British were forcing on them. And if it meant giving up his life so that his wife and children might one day wake to a free Ireland, then so be it. In that respect, he had no regrets. His only regret- his biggest regret- was not being there to meet his son._

 _He heard the cocking of rifles, and for the briefest of moments, he swore he could feel Zipporah's soul reaching out for his, even in the throes of agonizing childbirth. Tears began to fill his eyes as he thought of his wife, his beautiful Zipporah, the woman who had made the last seven years or so of his life extraordinary. Her laughter, her smile, her taste, those big dark eyes he loved so much... his mind flashed to the kiss they'd shared a week before, when, very heavily pregnant and a week from birth, she'd demanded to see him, and the guards had granted her wish. How he hadn't believed she was really there at first, and then he'd gathered her in his arms, felt the great swell beneath her dress, and knew she was really and truly there. How, after several minutes of soft conversation, he'd kissed her deeply, passionately, committing everything about her to memory- the feel the smell, the taste of her. And when they'd been forced apart, he'd promised to love her, no matter if Death himself separated them, and he meant it. He would love her, and he would wait for her, for however many years God saw fit to give her._

 _It was this last image of his wife, swollen and heavy with their child, that he held in his mind at that moment. The image of her caressing her belly, a small smile on her face as she waited for him to come to her after seeing Kit, that he pulled up from his memory. He heard a harsh shout, and released the breath he'd been holding. "Oh, Zipporah, I love you."_

 _At the very moment he drew his last breath, his body becoming riddled with bullets before it collapsed among the sacks laid out beneath his feet, in the house with the red door and iron knocker, his wife felt the shattering of her heart. Midst the agonizing pain of a childbirth she'd been caught in for hours, she released a scream of absolute, complete, bone-chilling agony._

 _Downstairs, Molly, the young maid, opened the door, surprised to find a young British soldier standing on the steps. "I'm to deliver a package to Mrs. Timothy Michael O'Shea." The maid glanced back towards the stairs, where she knew her mistress was trapped in the throes of childbirth, and after a moment, she turned back._

 _"I can give i' t' 'er." She replied, as the young soldier handed her the book. A scream made them both pause and turn to look toward the stairs; it was heartbreaking, filled to the brim with shattered hopes and dreams, and held together with the remains of a broken heart. The young soldier winced; in that moment, he knew that he was bearing witness to the destruction of a marriage at his comrades' hands. He turned back to Molly._

 _"I'm so sorry, for the pain your mistress is going through."_

 _The maid nodded, holding the book to her chest. "Aye, well, childbirth is a natural-"_

 _"I don't mean that, Miss." He replied softly, catching the door as she moved to close it. She stopped, waiting for him to continue. "I mean," He swallowed. "for the pain your mistress is suffering at losing her husband."_

 _Molly opened her mouth, but the strong, healthy cries of a newborn reached their ears and she turned back towards the stairs briefly, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. The young soldier met her gaze, giving her a tiny smile of his own. "Please, tell your mistress congratulations on the birth of her child, Miss-"_

 _"Molly. Molly Gallagher."_

 _"Miss Gallagher." He nodded to her, moving away and turning to head down the steps._

 _"Wait! Who shall I tell her brought the book?" The soldier stopped, turning back to her._

 _"Avery, Miss. Mr. Nicholas Avery." And without another word, he hurried through the darkness, leaving Molly standing in the doorway, the diary tight against her chest, a blush on her cheeks, unaware of exactly how young Nicholas Avery would not only play a role in her fate, but the fate of the O'Sheas as well._

He awoke to someone shaking him, and looked up to find Sarah standing over him. "Timmy?"

"S...rah? Wha''s wrong?"

She bit her lip. "Can I... sleep with you?"

He shifted to the side, allowing her to slide in beside him. "'nother dream?" She nodded. "Me too."

"What was yours about?"

He yawned, pulling the blankets tighter around them. "'imothy... Michael's... death..."

"So was mine." Her brother nodded, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her beneath his chin.


	24. Chapter 24

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Molly Gallagher and Nicholas Avery play a bigger role in the O'Shea lives later on down the line. Written: 2006.- Licia**

He awoke the next morning to find Sarah curled up beside him in the guest room he'd taken; the furniture for their rooms was arriving that afternoon, which meant both could sleep in their own rooms, in their own beds, as of that evening. He quickly checked the time- a little after two in the morning. Sighing softly, he shifted onto his back, letting his gaze wander to the ceiling above as his thoughts drifted back to the memory from the night before.

It had been the night Timothy Michael was executed and his son was born. He'd finished the diary, and requested it be returned to Zipporah upon his death, and it had been.

By a young British soldier named Nicholas Avery.

Something in the back of his mind told him that Nicholas Avery wasn't just a random British soldier, that he played a bigger part the story of the O'Sheas than just returning Timothy Michael's diary to his wife. A moment passed, before he got up, being careful not to wake his sister. He then grabbed his laptop and made his way downstairs, setting it beside the diary before fixing a cup of tea and returning to the table.

A quick search of 'Nicholas Avery' brought over two thousand results, and after a moment, he backtracked, instead typing in, 'Nicholas Avery British solider'.

Hundreds of hits- but not as many as before- appeared, and after scrolling through several, he clicked on what appeared to be a newspaper article. Upon pulling it up, however, he realized it was no article at all, but an announcement.

" _'... would like to announce the engagement of their son, Nicholas Edward Avery, to Miss Margaret 'Molly' Sophia Gallagher...'_ "

He grabbed a pen, quickly jotting the names down on a notepad his mother had left on the table. He downloaded the image and then returned to the search; several images popped up, but none that resembled the young man in Tim's dream. Finally deciding that there was no more he could do until he could get to the archives, he closed the search and shut the laptop, pushing it away with a sigh. His gaze landed on the diary, and after setting his cup down, he reached for it, pulling it towards him and opening it up. He flipped to the last entry before turning the page; the next few pages were blank.

As he went to close the book, something caught his eye; one of the pages was being pushed up by something. He gently pushed the page aside, finding a folded sheet of paper wedged in the crack of the pages. Upon lifting it out, he instantly recognized the words.

 _T' be r'turn'd t' th' custody o' me wife, Zipporah, upon th' eve o' me death,_

 _Fourteen May nineteen-sixteen_

 _\- Timothy Michael O'Shea, aged twenty-four years_

His breath caught as he carefully set the paper aside, turning to the page it had been partially covering.

 _Me b'loved Zipporah,_

 _By th' time ye read this, I shall be cold in me grave, sen' there by th' Brit'sh f'r supp'sed crimes 'gainst th' Brit'sh crown..._

A small part of him wanted to close the diary, because this letter clearly was meant for Zipporah, but he couldn't look away.

I _t had been three months since that night, since the baby had been born and her husband executed. She'd ignored it and ignored it and ignored it, placing it in the drawer of her writing desk, burying it under stationary, pens and ink, in the hopes that if she forgot about it, that horrible night would be nothing but a bad dream, that her husband was still alive and would return. And each night, it had called to her, begging to be opened and read through, to be looked at, to be held, for it was the last thing he had touched._

 _So it was one rainy day in early September when she finally removed it from the drawer in her desk. Having just put the baby down, and checked on her other children, she then excused herself, shutting the door to their bedroom softly behind her and making her way to her desk. After digging around for several minutes, she finally pulled it out, forcing her shaking fingers to open it. Instantly, his scent enveloped her, and it was as though she were wrapped in his arms once more. She skimmed the entries, tiny smiles tugging at her lips as her eyes lit on something she remembered happening, something funny being said, or a tender moment shared between them._

 _And then the book fell open to the last couple of pages. She removed the folded sheet of paper, her gaze lighting on the date:_

 _Fifteen May nineteen-sixteen_

 _The day after her husband's death._

 _He'd expected this to be returned to her the next day, not the day it happened-_

 _Her gaze dropped past the date, drinking in his familiar scrawl,_

 _Me b'loved Zipporah,_

 _She collapsed into the chair, dark eyes drinking in every word._

 _... I canna only 'ope th' birth 'twas no' too diff'cult, f'r I rem'mber th' struggles ye faced bringin' Nellie an' Joseph each int' th' world. I pray th' babe came quickly an' tha' 'is strong cries brough' some comf'rt t' ye, me love, an' tha' ev'n though I am gone, par' o' me still lives. I 'ope 'e is as beaut'ful as our oth'r chil'ren were a' birth, an' know tha' were I able, 'twoul' 'ave been there. I wish t' God I coul' 'ave been._

 _'ow I miss ye, me love, an' th' mom'nts 'twoul' share. Me dreams 'ave been fill'd wit' ye an' our chil'ren, an' ev'n now, I can 'ear Nellie's laught'r an' see Joseph's pudgy 'ands reachin' f'r me. God, 'ow I wish I 'ad seen our chil'ren one las' time, bu' I dinna wan' their las' mem'ry o' me t' be in a cell, 'waitin' death. I wan' our chil'ren t' rem'mber me b'fore th' Rebellion, when I 'twas simply their Da, 'ho loves 'em uncond'tionally, an' cherishes ev'ry mem'ry o' 'em, ev'n as I go t' me grave. Jus' as I d' no' wan' yer las' mem'ry o' me t' be tha' day a week 'go. Please, Zippi, me love, rem'mber me as I was, as I am, an' will 'lways be-_

 _A man, 'ho 'as lov'd ye fr'm th' mom'nt I firs' laid eyes on ye, 'cross tha' dance floor back in aught-eigh'. 'ho 'ad determ'ned then an' there, tha' 'e was goin' t' cour' ye, win yer 'and an' yer 'eart. Th' man wh' ask'd t' marry ye ev'n thoug' ye 'greed b'fore I coul' say a word, who prou'ly d'clared t' all o' Dublin tha' ye 'ad 'greed t' marry me. Rem'mber, me love? 'ow I stopp'd th' car in th' middle o' th' stree' an' stood up, proclaimin' tha' I 'twas th' luckiest man in all o' Dublin, if no' all o' I'eland? I know I prob'bly 'mbarrassed ye, an' I'ma sorry, I truly am, ye jus'... made me so 'appy tha' day. An' th' 'appiness only grew fr'm there._

 _Th' love ye 'ave giv'n me ov'r th' las' sev'n years... 'tis difficult t' describe in a mere lett'r. 'tis no' enough space, nor words tha' canna accurat'ly descr'be th' depths o' th' love tha' 'as grown in me 'eart... I simply wish we 'ad m're time. Were I giv'n th' chance t' do 'gain, I woul', if only t' go back an' r'fuse, so I coul' be wit' ye, an' our chil'ren. Tha' is me bigg'st regr't in this who'e affair- tha' I dinna spen' m're time wit' ye. Tha' I di' no' walk 'way when I 'ad th' chance._

 _Oh, Zipporah, 'ow I love ye so. I am sorry f'r th' secr'ts I kep', th' lies I tol', th' nigh's I r'turn'd 'ome late, only t' slip in b'side ye, when I shoul' 'ave been there all 'long. I'ma sorry I miss'd ev'ry mom'nt o' our chil'ren growin' an' b'comin' th' beaut'iful littl' people they will one day grow t' be, an' I wish t' God I coul' be there. Please know tha' I took par' in this no' 'cause I want'd t', bu' b'cause as long as our b'loved I'eland remains unfree, our chil'ren, our people, will suff'r a' th' 'ands o' th' Brit'sh. I took par' sos tha' maybe one day, our chil'ren can live wit'in an I'eland o' their own- a free I'land, tha' b'longs t' th' Irish an' only th' Irish. I know tha' 'twill 'appen long aft'r I am col' in me grave, an' tha' our chil'ren may no' live t' see a free I'land- tha' it will poss'bly be gen'rations o' O'Sheas aft'r us tha' shall live t' see an I'eland we fough' f'r._

 _Rem'mber, Zippi, me beaut'iful Zipporah, tha' I love ye, an' always will. An' tha' no matt'r wha' 'appens aft'r, I wish ye t' find 'appiness an' joy. Raise our chil'ren t' be goo', strong, indep'ndent memb'rs o' society, an' t' know th' diff'rence b'tween righ' an' wrong. Raise 'em t' follow their 'earts, an' t' trus' in our faith; tha' they can bring 'bout th' change we so desp'rately need. An' remind 'em, tha' I love 'em, all o' 'em. An' rem'mber, tha' I love ye._

 _Ye're th' love o' me life, Zipporah, an' I was nev'r so 'appy as I was wit' ye. Ye're me 'eart an' soul, me v'ry world. Marryin' ye an' bein' yer 'usband 'as made me a bett'r man, an' f'r tha', I am so abs'lutely grateful- t' 'ave been lucky enough t' 'ave been yer 'usband an' th' fath'r o' yer chil'ren. I love ye wit' all tha' I am an' all tha' I will be, ev'n aft'r I am col' in me grave. Wit' me las' breath, yer name will be on me lips, an' I will die 'appy, wit' me las' mem'ry o ye strong in me mind. D' no' fear f'r me, me love, I d' no' fear th' fir'n' squad, nor d' I fear Death, f'r no' ev'n Death canna keep me fr'm ye. O' tha' I pr'mise._

 _I love ye, Zipporah Grace O'Shea, wit' ev'ry fib'r o' me 'eart an' soul. Rem'mber tha'._

 _I love ye, Zipporah._

 _Love,_

 _Timothy Michael O'Shea_

 _Her tears dripped onto the page, blurring the words, her husband's last message to her. She could hear his voice in her head, hear the calm he'd possessed as he'd written it that night in May. Oh, how she'd wished she'd been stronger, demanded to know what he was hiding, what he was doing. If she had known and put her foot down, maybe he'd still be alive today. She could hear the faint cries of her son as he awoke from his nap in the nursery, but she couldn't bring herself to get up and rush to him. Instead, all she could do was cradle the open book to her chest, letting her grief overcome her. She rocked slowly back and forth, sobs wracking her small frame unable to think of anything beyond this last message to her._

 _"Oh... God... Timothy... me 'usband... why..." She shook her head, tightening her hold on the book, letting out a scream that sent not just the servants but her sisters-in-law running for the stairs. "Why? Why di' ye leave me? Why?"_

 _The door burst open, and Fiona, Aileen and Kit were faced with the sight of their sister-in-law, newly widowed mere weeks ago, completely broken down, a book cradled to her chest. After a moment, Aileen rushed off to check on the baby, and Fiona rushed into the room. "Zippi?" Slowly, cautiously, she knelt before the younger woman, reaching out to lay a hand on her knee. Her green gaze darted towards the book in the woman's arms, and she recognized her brother's diary. Suddenly, it all made sense. The black muslin Zipporah wore was soft against her fingers, and gently, she reached up to take the book away, but the woman held tighter to it._

 _"No, 'tis 'is!" She screamed, and Fiona pulled back._

 _"Okay. 'twas 'is. Zippi, look a' me-"_

 _But Zipporah ignored her; her rocking continued, slow and steady; Kit and the servants watched from the doorway as the young mistress of the O'Shea household finally, after weeks of denying it had ever happened, broke down and let her grief take control. They had watched in silence as the young mother had wandered the house in a stoic, almost catatonic state, dark gaze searching for her husband. Many of the servants feared she would end up in Bethlem, but Aileen, Fiona and Kit would not let that happen. They'd slowly nursed her back to health, knowing that she needed them there as much as they needed her- for though she was his wife, they were his sisters, and had grown up with him. They had a connection to Timothy Michael that Zipporah didn't have, a connection she desperately needed then. They kept her occupied during the day, as did the baby, but at night, as they helped her to bed, and curled around her for the first couple of hours like a pile of kittens, they felt the depths of her grief, and one if not all of them often awoke in the middle of the night to her cries as she called for him in her sleep, begged him to return, and it was those nights that broke all their hearts._

 _"Why... why did ye leave me, Timothy Michael... why? Why?"_

 _Fiona quickly gathered the sobbing young woman into her arms, holding tight to her- as she had the night Zippi had given birth- and let her scream and cry against her shoulder. Tears filled and fell down her own cheeks, and she buried her face in her sister-in-law's hair, trying desperately to stifle her own sobs. After a moment, Sarah turned to the servants, seeing Aileen return and slip into the room with the baby in her arms. She took a shaky breath._

 _"Please, r'turn t' yer work. Me sist'r woul' no' wan' ye worryin' ov'r 'er. 'twil take care o' her, I promise."_

 _Once the servants returned to their duties, Kit slipped into the room, softly shutting the door behind her._

Tim reached up, brushing the tears from his cheeks. "Timmy?" He turned to see Sarah make her way towards him. "What's wrong? What happened?"

He simply held the diary out to her, and she took it, concern in her green eyes. "It was the last thing Timothy Michael wrote to his wife. He promised that death would not even keep them apart, and..." He swallowed, watching as Sarah's green eyes skimmed over the letter. "and great-great-grandmother Zipporah, she... I think it nearly broke her."

As Sarah took a seat beside him, he looked up, to see Zipporah watching him from the doorway. Sadness filled her gaze, and after a moment, she moved away, turning and disappearing into the shadows; it had been just a glimpse, but in that glimpse, Tim had caught the shattering of her heart.


	25. Chapter 25

**Rifiuto: Non Mirena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

Kathleen awoke at three that morning; darkness still filled the sky, and after a moment, she pulled the semi-heavy comforter up over her head before shifting onto her back. Sleep did not come easily though, and her thoughts shifted to the house and her family. Something had happened to the O'Sheas that forced half the family to be wiped from the family tree; somehow, her now-deceased husband had ended up with her great-grandfather's diary, her children had returned with her to the house all three of them had been born in to bury their father, and now...

She sighed. John's funeral was in three days, and she didn't know if she was ready. If she'd ever be ready.

 _Was this what Zippi felt, when Timothy Michael died? Except that there was no funeral..._

Not that anyone knew of, that is.

Timothy Michael's body had disappeared and never returned to his wife; she wasn't even sure there was a stone in the O'Shea family plot in the local cemetery.

Her hands wandered down to rest over her belly, and she closed her eyes, letting her thoughts drift. It didn't seem possible, that she had borne a son at the tender age of seventeen, and then a daughter two years later at nineteen, all before her twentieth birthday. Had Zipporah been just as scared, when she had Kathleen's namesake at the same age Kathleen had been when Tim was born? Had she felt the same fear? Something told Kathleen that she had more in common with her great-grandmother than she cared to admit.

 _Both teen mothers, both married as teenagers, t' the loves o' our lives... both widowed young. Though for'y-five isn't 'xactly young, it's a lo' younger than when mos' women lose their 'usbands. An' those are jus' th' similarities I canna rem'mber. Will I suffer th' same grief great-gran'moth'r Zippi di'?_

She gently caressed her stomach, mind going back to the day she'd told John she was pregnant. He hadn't exactly been thrilled, but he hadn't run either. He'd accepted the sudden change in his fate calmly, if not a little freaked out by his impending fatherhood, and had promised to stay with her, no matter what. His reaction to Sarah had gone a little better, but then again, Tim had been a surprise thanks to one careless night. That didn't mean she loved her son any less than her daughter; if anything, the circumstances of his conception and birth just made her love him more, for if it wasn't for Tim, she never would have realized John was her soulmate, her one true love. A soft chuckle escaped her throat, as she trailed a hand down her stomach to caress her womb, memories of the night she went into labor coming back. God, she'd been so young, so... scared, of everything, from the contractions starting to her waters breaking to the baby crowning to even holding him after he was born... how she'd managed to not inadvertently kill him at some point in these last twenty-eight years still escaped her.

The birth had been attended by the family midwife, Evelyn Wilson, who had attended the childbirth and labor of every O'Shea woman for years- and whose great-grandmother, a young woman named Mackenzie, had been the midwife to Zipporah O'Shea not just for the birth of her first two, but on the night of her husband's execution, and had witnessed the labouring young woman as she'd struggled to not only bring the last child her husband had given her into the world, but deal with the unending grief at the realization that he was dead and gone from the earth.

And while Evelyn had helped, she'd essentially let Kathleen go about it herself, for the young mother had cried and kicked out every time the young midwife came near her; over time, she'd let Evelyn near, but not for long, usually just to check her progress, and the young midwife had kept her distance par Kathleen's silent request, knowing that when she needed to, she would be at the young mother's side and not before; there was no pushiness with Evelyn, or her mother before her, which Kathleen liked.

A moment passed, before she finally pushed the covers back and sat up; despite the darkness outside the window, she could see someone sitting by the bed, and after a moment, closed her eyes in attempt to clear her vision. But when she opened them again, the person was still there. She couldn't make out the features, couldn't tell if they were male or female, but after a moment, the person moved closer into the faint light of the digital alarm clock. "Timmy? Sarah?"

 _"Ye shoul' be prou' o' yer littl' ones, Kathleen Helen."_

Once her eyes focused, she realized it was Zippi, perched on the edge of her bed, black mourning skirts gathered about her, long, dark hair pulled back in a twist that was tumbling free from its pins. The beautiful young matriarch looked no older than Sarah, though it was evident that she had just lost her husband, if not for the black widow's weeds, then the mourning locket around her neck. "Zippi." The woman smiled softly at her, reaching out to brush a curl off her great-great-granddaughter's cheek, only for her fingers to move through the young woman's skin.

 _"Yer young Kit grows m're like ye ev'ry day-"_

"Sarah. We don't call her Kit." Kathleen replied, meeting the other woman's gaze. Zipporah nodded, smiling softly. A moment passed, before the matriarch stood, going to the door. "Zippi?" The woman stopped, turning back to her. Slowly, Kathleen swallowed. "How... who... what happened? To the rest of the family? To... to Timothy Michael's sisters? What happened to... to Fiona and Aileen and... Sarah?"

Zippi studied her for a moment, before whispering, _"'twill 'ave t' ask 'em."_ And then she turned, slipping out of the room and disappearing down the hall.


	26. Chapter 26

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

The water was hot as it sprayed over her, a mini rainstorm coating her skin and relaxing her muscles. She worked to rinse the shampoo from her hair, letting a contented sigh escape her throat. Timmy was downstairs, and _Mams_ was still in bed; really, Sarah couldn't blame her. In three days, her husband would be buried in the family plot, just like the spouses of O'Sheas had been for years. The ceremony would be truly Catholic, with a procession to the cemetery- Timmy was to be a pallbearer- followed by the lowering of the coffin and the last rites. Afterwards, everyone would return to the house for coffee and to spend time reminiscing. But what worried Sarah the most was the wake that was to take place the day before the funeral.

Neither she nor Timmy had ever attended a wake; they weren't sure what to expect, and _Mams_ had told them nothing of what would go on during such an event. All Sarah really knew was that _Da_ 's body would be lying in-state in the house, and that family and close friends would be spending the evening with them. She knew the rituals for a wake were centuries old, and that _Da_ would have a traditional Catholic ceremony. She couldn't say that she was thrilled that her dead father would be spending the day before he was buried in the house she and her brother had been born in, but really, she didn't have much of a say in the matter.

Laughter reached her ears, and her eyes snapped open; she turned her head, towards the shower curtain. "Timmy?"

Silence.

A moment passed before she returned to shampooing her hair.

Another laugh; she stopped. This wasn't her brother's throaty, tenor chuckle. This was the laughter of a child. She reached for the curtain, quickly pulling it aside-

And found the bathroom empty, save for her. With a sigh, she felt her heart return to her chest from her throat and tugged the curtain back into place before turning back. A squeal of surprise escaped her throat; a little girl, no older than five or six, was sitting on the edge of the tub, a white, Edwardian-style dress on, black button up boots on her feet. Her hair was held back with two big bows on either side of her head, and she looked up at Sarah with big, dark eyes. Sarah's first instinct was to try and cover herself, and she quickly tugged the curtain back and grabbed the towel lying on the sink to cover herself with. "Who... who are you? How... how'd you get in here?"

The child watched her for a moment, before bringing her hand up to cover her giggle _. "Mams says ye're O'Sheas."_

Sarah stopped, slowly meeting the child's gaze. A moment passed before she nodded. "And who's your mom?"

Small hands reached out to play with the hem of her towel, and Sarah stepped back, quickly shutting the water off. Something about the child seemed... off. She was little, though at five or six, that wasn't uncommon. She herself had been tiny for that age, as had her brother. No, this little girl... she looked as though she'd witnessed death far too much in her short life. _"Mams says yer Da died."_ Sarah nodded again. _"Mine di' t'. On th' nigh' me broth'r 'twas born."_

A breath caught in Sarah's throat, as she suddenly realized who she was looking at. "Kathleen... You're Kathleen Helen... _Mam's namesake_ -"

The child's features darkened. _"Nellie! Mams an' Da call me Nellie! I hate Kathleen!"_

"Okay... Nellie... you're... you're great-great-great Grandma Zippi's daughter-"

" _Zippi... Da calls Mams 'Zippi.'_ " The girl replied, looking up at Sarah. _"Da's dead. 'e die' in th' 'evolu'ion."_ And without another word, she climbed out of the bathtub and hurried out of the bathroom.

" _Hey! Wait!_ How do you _know_ that? _You're only five! Nellie, wait!_ " Frantically, Sarah hurried after the girl; out in the hall, she stopped, listening for the sound of giggling, but heard none. With a sigh, she turned, making her way towards her bedroom, only to stop after stepping inside.

Nellie stood by the bed, whispering something in someone's ear. A moment passed before Sarah realized that it must have been her mother, for the dark hair and widow's weeds were a giveaway. Gently, Zippi reached up, taking her daughter's chin in her hand. The little girl had tears trailing down her cheeks, and Sarah watched as gently, her mother reached up to wipe them away. It was evident now that though they were spirits, they weren't as transparent as one would think. _You've been watching too many horror movies, Sarah._

Zippi didn't notice her great-great-great granddaughter's intrusion; instead, she worked on fixing the bows in Nellie's hair and smoothing the skirt of her dress. The child stamped her foot, and Zippi once more grasped her daughter's chin, forcing the child to look at her. Her voice was soft, calming, as she spoke. _"Ye 'ave t' und'rstan', Nellie, love. 'tis no' intrud'rs, bu' family, they are. Kathleen's chil'ren, they be. Yer namesake."_

Nellie stamped her foot again. Sarah furrowed a brow. Something didn't fit right; Nellie was Zipporah and Timothy Michael's oldest. She'd been a child when her father died, had watched her aunts all disappear from the family, and she herself had lived a very short life, one no one in the family seemed to know about. Nellie who was Kathleen's namesake; Nellie, who had been barely thirty when she died, had lived to adulthood, and yet, returned to the house a mere child no older than five or six. With the exception of Zipporah, all of the O'Sheas seemed to have died young- at least the ones born of O'Shea blood.

Was it because Zipporah was a Pearse, and had married into the family, that she had outlived her family? Or was it something else?

 _"I don' wan'-"_

 _"Tha's 'nough, Kathleen Helen. 'twill resp'ct Kathleen's chil'ren, or 'twill no' be 'llowed t' 'ave cont'ct wit' 'em, if ye're t' act this way. Am I clear?"_ The girl whimpered. _"Kathleen."_ A moment passed, before she nodded. _"Good."_ Without another word, she released the girl's chin and gently smoothed her hair, turning to meet Sarah's gaze. A soft sigh escaped Zippi's lips as she met Sarah's gaze. _"Per'aps they canna disc'v'r th' s'crets we 'ave 'ad t' bury."_

Sarah swallowed, watching as Zippi and her daughter faded from sight. Secrets. What _exactly_ kind of secrets had the O'Sheas buried? And more importantly, Sarah asked herself, did she even _want_ to know?


	27. Chapter 27

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2008.- Licia**

The coffee was bitter as it slid down the back of his throat, and he reached for the creamer. He never understood how Gibbs could drink it black. After setting his cup aside, he turned back to the family tree and the notepad he'd been working on.

 _Timothy Michael- 1892 - 1916, aged 24 years_

 _Kathleen Helen "Nellie"- 1911 - 1940, aged 29 years_

 _Sarah Katherine "Kit"- 1894 - 1926, aged 32 years_

 _Aileen Elizabeth- 1890 - 1918?, aged 28 years_

 _Fiona Margaret - 1888 - 19?, aged ? years_

From everything he could tell, the majority of Timothy Michael's family members had died young. Most hadn't lived to see thirty-five. It seemed to be a massive common theme among the O'Sheas, to die young, either in childhood or early adulthood, for no one, minus Zippi, seemed to live to longer than their mid-thirties.

 _But then again, Zippi isn't an O'Shea, not by birth, anyway._

A soft sigh escaped his throat, and he set his pen down, reaching up to rub the exhaustion from his face.

"So it's the _O'Sheas_ that die young. Not the McGees."

He jumped, turning to find Sarah behind him, reading the list over his shoulder. She looked as tired as he felt. "Thanks for nearly giving me a heart attack, Sarah."

She yawned, moving away from him to pour herself a cup of coffee. "Sorry. I couldn't sleep. I kept hearing childish laughter in the hall."

Her brother rolled his eyes, picking up his own mug and taking a sip. "They've even got the kids in on this." Silence fell between the siblings, before Sarah spoke up again, propping her head on her hand.

"Timmy?" Her brother turned green eyes to hers. She'd told him about Nellie bothering her in the shower, and how she'd found Zippi sitting on the edge of her bed, scolding the little girl about torturing Kathleen's children, but hadn't told him what the matriarch had said. "Zippi said... something about... 'secrets we've had to bury.' Do you have any idea what that could mean?"

Silence fell between the pair once more, before her brother shook his head, brow furrowing. "I have no idea, Sarah. Maybe _Mams_ would know?"

"Maybe _Mams 'twould_ know _wha'_?"

Both siblings jumped, turning to find their mother in the kitchen doorway. She looked as exhausted as they felt; as though she hadn't slept a wink in the last week. Which, given how the last few weeks had gone, was probably true. Without waiting for either of her children to reply, Kathleen shuffled into the kitchen, fixing a cup of coffee before joining them at the table. Eventually, Sarah spoke up."'Secrets we've had to bury'- Zippi said it. I... I don't know what she means."

Silence reigned, as Kathleen glanced at each of her children in turn, before shaking her head. "I... I _dinna_ know. _Bu' tha'_ does _no'_ mean the O'Sheas _d' no' 'ave secr'ts."_ She sipped her coffee, oblivious to the looks her children were sharing. "The O'Sheas are-"

"Insane? Stupidly private? Narcissistic? Stubborn?" Tim stopped at his mother's glare. After a moment, Kathleen sighed, waving it away.

 _"Diff'rent."_ Kathleen supplied calmly, wrapping her hands around the mug she held. "Always _'ave_ been. I _canna_ tell _ye_ why, though." She set her mug down after taking a sip, and held out a hand for the notepad. Tim slid it towards her, and she quickly read through the list of names, dates and ages. "Only Fiona _dinna 'ave_ a death date." She whispered, flipping to another page.

"We can't find anything past nineteen-eighteen, so... she probably died that year." Tim replied, sipping his coffee as Sarah struggled to keep her eyes open. "The Spanish Flu broke out that year, and killed nearly half of the world's population. From what I remember learning about in it school, the first wave mainly killed young adults- anyone under sixty-five, and mainly between the ages of roughly twelve and forty. If we're right, and Aileen died of the flu, then she would have been in that age group; she was about twenty-eight. She probably died when the first wave hit."

Kathleen nodded, setting the notepad down and reaching for the family tree. Tim slid it over to her, and she studied it briefly, before tapping something. "There. _Loo'_." The other two scooted to look over their mother's shoulders. " _'er_ son, Nicholas, died a year _lat'r_ , in nineteen-nineteen. And Samuel, _'er 'usband_ , died _th'_ year _b'fore_ , in 'seventeen."

"In battle?" Sarah asked, meeting her mother's gaze. Kathleen shook her head.

"From _wha'_ I know _o'_ Samuel O'Hanrahan, _'e_ was a _doct'r. 'e nev'r_ saw battle."

"But he probably saw the soldiers coming in from it. And if he worked on them, he probably contracted it _from_ them." Tim finished for his mother, who sighed. "So if Aileen and her family all died from the Spanish flu within a year of each other... why didn't anyone else in the family contract it also?"

"Was Aileen living in Dublin with the rest of the family?" Sarah asked, but Kathleen shook her head.

"I _don'_ know. _'twould_ be _me_ guess. None _o' th' chil'ren_ strayed _v'ry_ far from Dublin. As _f'r_ why the _oth'rs dinna_ contract it..." She sighed, studying the family tree.

"Maybe she was quarantined." Sarah suggested, picking up her cup again. Her mother wrinkled her nose.

"At _tha'_ time, _th'_ flu struck so quick, _'twasn't_ time _t'_ quarantine-" She turned to the other papers Tim had brought downstairs with him, shuffling through them in silence before she stopped. She quickly read over it, her eyes widening in surprise. Tim looked up, seeing his mother's startled expression.

" _Mams_? What is it?" After a moment, Kathleen handed the paper to her son. Sarah looked up from studying the coffee in her cup and then stood, going to her brother. He glanced at it before his gaze darted to his mother's and back to the paper. _"No way."_


	28. Chapter 28

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N:** **Written: 2006. - Licia**

 _The car door slammed shut behind her; she could hear footsteps, but didn't turn around. She could smell the sea, even from this far into the city, though she didn't understand why Da didn't allow her to stay in Dublin. Why had he sent her all the way up to Belfast? What had she done that was so wrong, for her to be cast out of the family, exiled to this foreign city, so far from home and her beloved younger siblings?_

 _The fluttering within her belly, the first true signs of movement, jarred her briefly, and she reached up. Oh, right. Her one, scandalous, passionate night at that party with Eamon Phillips, the boy she'd loved since they were mere children, was the reason she had been sent away. If it hadn't been the compromising position they'd been found in, then the thickening of her middle and the growing of her bosom were the true reasons._

 _Da had been furious when the midwife had informed he and Ma of their oldest daughter's condition. The woman had suggested a hasty marriage between her and the Phillips boy to avoid scandal, before she truly began to show, so as to keep the tongues of the Dublin ton silent, but Da had refused, insisting the only true course of action was to send his firstborn away._

 _Tears trailed down her cheeks as she looked up at the feel of someone laying a hand on her shoulder. Da stood at her side, her carpetbag in his grasp. A quick glance behind her revealed her siblings huddled together, tears trailing down their cheeks as they stood with Ma. "I don' wan' t', Da. Please, canna I come 'ome?"_

 _James Robert O'Shea, a tall, lanky stockyard businessman with perfectly groomed red hair his children had all inherited in some form, and soft hazel eyes- for his wife possessed the green her children would be born with- turned his gaze to his oldest child. He didn't miss the tears tracing their way down her cheeks, and his heart constricted. No, he had to stay firm. He couldn't allow his beloved Fiona to tarnish the good of the O'Shea name; were she to stay in Dublin, reside at one of the laundries there, it would only be a matter of time before the rest of the city knew of her fall from grace. Yes, it was much better- for her and the family- if she resided in one of the laundries up here in Belfast._

 _Given time, eventually, she could return home. Once the secret she carried arrived and was taken away, and she'd paid her penance, then he would consider allowing her to return home to Dublin, but until then- and from what the midwife said, she was close to three months, and the babe would arrive sometime in early June of next year, not long after the girl turned fifteen in May- she was to remain here, in Belfast._

 _"I'ma sorry, Fiona, bu' 'tis f'r th' bes'."_

 _He nodded to the Mother Superior as she made her way towards them. The older woman nodded to James, who gently pushed Fiona forward. "So 'tis young Fiona, aye?"_

 _The girl didn't respond, but glanced at the older woman standing before her. Tenderly almost, the woman reached up, gently lifting the crying girl's chin to study her. She clucked her tongue softly, shaking her head as her gaze moved to rest on the girl's midsection. Despite her not yet showing, it was evident that she was to be expecting, for the small pooch of her belly. The woman slid her hand down to rest against the girl's middle with a sigh. Fiona flinched, but didn't pull away. She sniffled, refusing to meet the woman's eye. "'tis quite th' predicamen' ye've found yerself in, chil'."_

 _"Fiona?"_

 _The others turned as Aileen, pulled away from her siblings and mother, rushing to her older sister. The thirteen-year-old was closest to Fiona not only in age, but in temperament and personality. She threw her arms around the older girl, burying her face in Fiona's shoulder as her own shook with sobs. "Don' go, Fiona. Please!"_

 _The older girl held tight to her younger sister, glancing quickly at her father. She knew that Da hadn't wanted them to come, that he had insisted it be just he and Ma, and that Aileen, quiet, calm Aileen, had had a screaming fit that rivaled and put the bean si to shame. Eventually, after several hours- of Aileen's screaming and crying that ultimately led to an out and out fit- beating her fists upon the ornamental rug and kicking her feet until her shoes flew off her feet and her hair was a right mess- on the parlor room floor, Da had relented, agreeing that Aileen, Timothy Michael and Kit could come. It had been a fit unlike any that Aileen had thrown in years; the last major fit she'd had being when she was two._

 _Aileen could feel the swell growing beneath her sister's dress; she knew that Fiona and Eamon had been caught in a compromising position at the party, that her sister's virtue and purity had been ruined, and that Da was sending her away because she was in a 'delicate condition' as she remembered overhearing the midwife say as she'd hidden outside her sister's bedroom door that day three months ago. And it had taken Da all this time to get in touch with the laundry here in Belfast; in those two, nearly three short months, Fiona had begun to show- not much, but still._

 _Fiona slowly pulled away, kissing her younger sister and whispering that she loved her, before turning to her youngest siblings. A moment passed before eleven-year-old Timothy made his way towards her, wrapping his oldest sister in his arms. "Ye will write?" His voice thick with tears, he buried his face in her neck, choking on a sob. She nodded vigorously._

 _"Aye, Timothy Michael, I will. I promise."_

 _By the time Kit made her way forward, Fiona's tears had all but dried on her cheeks. The nine-year-old studied her sister's midsection, before reaching out and splaying both her hands over the older girl's expanding tummy. Sniffling, Kit whispered, "Will we ev'r ge' t' mee' 'em?"_

 _Fiona, too distraught over having to leave her precious siblings behind, wouldn't register Kit's prophetic words until well after she'd gone into labor, on a hot June day. At that moment, she simply wrapped the nine-year-old in her arms, rocking her gently back and forth before kissing the top of her head. "I love ye, Kit. So much."_

 _But before the child could say anything, Da wrenched the girl from her sister's arms, pushing her towards the car. "That's enough! It's time to go, Sarah Katherine!"_

 _Through her tears, Fiona watched as her siblings were ordered back into the car, watched as it drove off, becoming nothing more than a distant memory. And when she finally did she her beloved siblings again, the pain she would have to share would be so much greater than even the longest hours of labor._

Kathleen slowly shook her head, unable to believe what she was reading. But it was there, plain as day, in black and white. A moment passed, before Tim finally spoke, voice shaky as he read the contents out loud.

 _"'... we 'ave space in our laund'y t' take in Fiona, Mr. O'Shea. I can assure ye, tha' her sin 'twill be dealt wit' swiftly, and tha' once th' babe 'as been born, tha' 'twill be placed with'n a good, lovin' 'ome..._ "

"'Her sin'?" Sarah choked out. "I'm sorry, but what sin did Fiona commit that was so bad?"

Kathleen swallowed thickly, glancing up at her oldest, one hand reaching down and ghosting over her midsection. She knew the sin Fiona had committed, for she too had committed the same, though her outcome had been very different than Fiona's. Voice thick with tears, Kathleen replied,

"Fiona had a child out of wedlock."


	29. Chapter 29

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N:** **Written: 2006. - Licia**

"Wait, _Mams_ , are _ye_ _sayin'_ that... that Fiona got _pregnant_ out of wedlock? By whom?"

Slowly, Kathleen nodded, setting the letter down. She noticed that the longer they stayed, the more their natural accents returned. "Most likely Eamon Phillips." She pulled out the photograph she'd found, handing it to her daughter. "From _wha'_ I _canna_ figure, they _'ad_ been _chil'hood sweet'earts_ , intent on _marryin'_ some day-"

"But if he _go'_ her pregnant, couldn't _'e 'ave_ married her?" Sarah asked, confused. Tim shrugged, taking a seat at the table.

"James Robert wouldn't allow it." Kathleen replied.

"Why not?" Tim asked, turning his gaze from his mother to the entrance of the kitchen. Just slightly peeking around the corner, he could see a young woman, listening intently, though it wasn't Zippi. She was dressed in a plain, long-sleeved muslin dress and white pinafore, her hair pulled back, a white cap on her head. Tears glistened in her eyes, and she sniffled, choking on a sob. Kathleen shook her head.

" _Mos'_ likely, _b'cause she 'ad brough' shame ont' th'_ family."

"But... would that really justify... sending her away?" Tim asked, meeting Kathleen's gaze. His mother sighed. " _Ye mus' und'rstan'_ , loves, _tha' 'twas_ a _v'ry diff'rent_ time; _'twas_ common, for an unmarried, pregnant girl _t'_ be _sen'_ away. _Ev'n up t' th' sev'nties_." She met her son's gaze, before reaching out to caress his cheek. " _'ad_ I _no' me' yer Da, an' 'ad_ Zippi _no' pu' 'er_ foot down, Fiona's fate _woul' 'ave_ been mine as well."

The siblings shared a glance, unsure of what to say.

 _It was hot, hard backbreaking work she and the other girls were forced to do, day in and day out, seven days a week. Though as her belly had expanded, she found that her time in the laundries had diminished- she was now regulated to folding the sheets and linens after they had been washed and dried, but now, even that was a task too difficult for her._

 _She sat upon her bed in the dormitory she shared with eleven other girls, hands reaching down to cradle the great swell before her. When she'd first arrived, she'd found that she was not the only girl in condition- others her age or a little older were also in condition, some close to birth, others midway through; there were women of ill-repute who also called the laundry home, and, like her, had been left to a life of indentured servitude to pay for their sins._

 _But I 'ave don' noth'n wrong, the familiar words had escaped her lips that first night, when she'd curled up on the hard bed and cried herself to sleep, wrapping her arms around her midsection, wishing for her siblings to come into the room and cuddle with her, like they would often do when she was upset. But no one came. The other girls tried their hardest to ignore the new girl's cries; eventually, one of the older girls- a girl a couple years older named Moira, who was two months away from her time- had gotten up and made her way towards the bed, sitting beside her. She'd stroked her hair and hummed softly, talking to her until her cries had stopped. From that moment on, Moira had taken it upon herself to look after Fiona, for which the younger girl was grateful._

 _"Fiona?" She looked up, to see Moira come into the dormitory, the dark, long-sleeved dress with the white pinafore on over it hiding the fact that she had given birth to a baby boy a few short months ago. The boy had lived only long enough to give one sickly cry before drawing its last breath, and the sisters had taken it away, leaving Moira distraught. The girl's long red hair was pulled back in a bun, a white cap upon her head. The younger girl bit her lip, tensing. Instantly, Moira knelt before her, taking her hands. "Talk t' me, Fiona. 'ave yer pains begun?"_

 _Tightness grabbed her around the middle and she bit her lip, nodding. A soft, frightened whimper escaped her throat, and she squeezed Moira's hands, hard. The older girl knew the pain Fiona was going through; she had gone through it herself not long ago. Without a word, she stood, helping Fiona to her feet and wrapping an arm around the girl's waist. Without a word, she helped the fifteen-year-old to the doorway of the dorm, before letting go and rushing to the landing of the stairs not far away._

 _"_ _Please, fetch th' midwife! 'tis Fiona's time!" She turned back as a contraction grabbed the teenager around the waist, stronger than the rest, forcing the girl to her knees, a scream escaping her throat that rang throughout the entire area. "Hurry!"_

 _When she awoke next, she found herself in a bed, surrounded by a couple of the sisters, the Mother Superior and the midwife. Moira was nowhere to be found. In only her shift, she lay among sparse muslin blankets and a couple pillows, soft lantern light reaching the outer edges of her vision. She had no idea as to where she was- though were she to guess, it was the small room where the girls who were in condition went to birth, if the even sparser conditions were anything to go by. Before she could say anything, pain, absolutely horrible, unimaginable pain grabbed her around the middle, and proceeded to twist her insides._

 _All she could do was scream, fingers digging into the sparse material that constituted for a blanket. The pain was so intense, it felt as though every fiber of her being was about to be torn to pieces. Once the pain subsided, she was able to take a breath, but not for long, as the sudden feel of pressure- deep, pounding pressure within her most secret of places- began to build and throb between her spread legs. She heard the sisters' voices, but couldn't make out what exactly they were saying; the pain she was currently experiencing had her in its grip, and refused to relinquish her._

 _Suddenly, all the pressure that had built up within released as her waters burst. Pain like she'd never felt before ripped through her, and she snapped her eyes shut in attempt to block out the pain. "Mama! Mama!"_

 _"... ye need t' push, chil'! Push!"_

 _Despite every fiber of her being screaming not to, her body did as she was ordered; it was a slow, agonizing process, giving birth. What began at seven that morning continued on into the early hours of the evening and then into the darkness of the night as the bell of the great church chimed the midnight hour. A burning sensation settled between her legs as something pushed against her opening. Again, Fiona cried for her mother, only to get no response, no soft hand in hers, no gentle kiss to her forehead. The person she missed more than her beloved siblings had turned her back on her, at Da's orders._

 _At ten minutes before dawn, she gave that final push, and the babe slid out of her in a burst of fluid, strong cries filling the room. She shakily pushed herself onto her elbows in attempt to see the babe that had caused her so much agony. "Wha' is it? Sister?"_

 _The woman looked up at her, the infant crying in her arms. "'tis a boy ye've birth'd, lass." She quickly laid the baby in one of the other sister's arms-_

 _"A b-" But Fiona was cut off by more pressure. She let out a cry, nails digging back into the blanket. "Wha's... 'appening..."_

 _The sisters shared a glance. "Twins."_

 _The fifteen-year-old girl's screams cut through any conversation that would have been had, as she bore down for a second time, midst the pressure building within. "Oh..." She whimpered, reaching down and tangling her fingers in the material of her dress as the pain returned, worse this time. "Mama!" A squeal of pain- similar to the sound of a pig being slaughtered- escaped her throat, and she snapped her eyes shut._

 _"Push, lass! Push! Harder! Almost! Push harder!"_

 _At twilight, Fiona's screams, brought about by a long, hard, difficult labor, were drowned out by shrill screams as her second child burst out of her in a rush of fluid, sliding into the world with strong cries that matched their mother's. As the girl- for that's what she was, no matter the circumstances that now made her a woman- collapsed back against the pillows, she watched as the sister lifted the squealing infant from between her legs. "... two... bu'... canna be..."_

 _"Aye, 'tis." The sister replied, and after a moment, Fiona reached out._

 _"Mine. 'tis mine, both o' 'em. Mine an' Eamon's. Give 'em t' me. Please. Give 'em t' me. They are mine." The sisters shared a glance. They knew it was their duty to take the babes away immediately- for law dictated that as soon a babe left the mother's womb, it was to be handed over, to be placed in a home who would care for them. As stated, the mothers were not allowed to see, let alone hold, their babes after birth, thereby to make the separation easier. But this..._

 _Never, in all their years of working here, had a young girl sent to them borne twins, least of all living twins._

 _"Give 'em t' me." They turned back to Fiona, who had pushed herself onto her elbow, her long hair falling into her eyes and over her shoulders in sweaty tangles. She was pale, shaky, but determined to hold the babes she'd just spent the last several hours struggling to birth. "They are mine. Give me my babes." After a moment, both women moved towards the bed, and Fiona sat up, reaching out for them. She winced as her breasts, swollen, tender and full, brushed against the material of her dress._

 _The younger woman, Sister Elizabeth, held the baby boy out to her, and she took him, tears beginning to prick the backs of her eyes. Her breath caught as she gazed at her son, newly born, and clearly a full-term babe. A tiny smile tugged at Fiona's lips, as she gazed at her son. "'ello, wee love. If only yer da coul' mee' ye."_

 _She looked up, eyes lighting on the baby in Sister Grace's arms, and after a moment, she shifted, reaching out for her. Sister Grace glanced at the others before slowly handing the baby over, and Fiona swallowed thickly as she adjusted to holding both infants. "Two... I dinna kno'..." She sniffled, voice wavering as she gazed upon the babes in her arms. Gently, she leaned down, brushing a soft kiss to each newborn head. "I love ye, both o' ye, so, so much. An' 'twill d' all I can t' make s're ye grow up lov'd 'ere, wit' me."_

 _The sisters shared a glance, hearing her whisper the names of her babes. How, exactly, could they tell the girl the truth-_

 _Minutes later, the door opened, and Mother Superior strode in, a couple other sisters with her. She was startled to see Fiona cradling two newborns, and turned to Grace and Elizabeth. "What is she- twins?" Both nodded. A moment passed, before Mother Superior sighed resolutely, before nodding to the other women with her. "Take them."_

 _Without warning, the babes were taken from her arms, and Fiona, confused and horrified, struggled to get them back, but she was soon held down. "No! No, wha' are ye doin'? Those are me babes! Mine! Give 'em back t' me! Give 'em back! No!"_

 _Mother Superior turned back to the girl as the others left the room, the babes crying in their arms. "'tis f'r th' bes', Fiona. They are goin' t' good 'omes. An' ye, will serve ou' th' res' o' yer penance, now tha' yer sin is gone." And without another word, she left, the others following._

 _"... no! Me babes... don't take me... give 'em back..." Left alone in the fading darkness of the dripping candles, the oldest O'Shea daughter curled on her side, one arm around her still protruding belly, the other reaching out for the babes she'd spent hours struggling to expel from her small body, her screams and sobs bouncing off the walls. With the physical pain of childbirth now over, the emotional pain of having her motherhood ripped from her before it could even begin began to sink in._

 _Despite the O'Shea blood that ran in her veins, in the veins of her newborns so coldly ripped from her arms, she was no longer an O'Shea, because of her babes. Now, and until the church decided to- if ever- release her, she would forever be known as a Magdelene._


	30. Chapter 30

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N:** **Written: 2006. - Licia**

 _A Magdelene girl._

She couldn't quite wrap her head around the fact that great-great Great Aunt Fiona had been a Magdelene girl, forced to work at a laundry- Ulster Magdelene Asylum, if the information she had found was correct- before and after her child was born.

That's why there's no record of Fiona in the family, from aught-three until aught-five. The next record Kathleen had been able to find had been a marriage certificate for Fiona and Eamon Phillips, the young newspaper man Fiona had fallen pregnant by. But how, exactly, had she managed to escape? A girl did not simply return home from a Magdelene laundry, not unless her family came and got her or they released her- which, more often than not, never happened, unless the laundry closed, and even then, it was shaky ground. So how had Fiona gotten out?

From everything Kathleen knew of Grandfather James, the man was a staunch, strict man who believed deeply in the Catholic Church, as much as his family did; he was not the type of man who would allow his daughter to return home so quickly, especially after committing such a sin as sex before marriage and bearing a child out of wedlock. Unless...

She sighed, setting the can of red paint on the tarp covered step and turning to the door. Having wrapped the knocker in tape, she grabbed the brush and set to work on giving the door a fresh coat. Memories of doing this with her sisters came flooding back, the humid June days when they would spend more time getting the paint all over each other than the door, until Da or Zippi had to come out and tell then to quit fooling around and finish. It had become tradition, from the moment Timothy Michael first painted the door red, for it to be given a fresh coat every summer- a tradition that had vanished when she and John had fled to America, taking the children with them- and one that was sorely needed to be picked up again. And anything that would keep her mind from the wake about to happen in three days time, when her husband would be laid in-state in the living room of this very house...

With each steady stroke of the brush, her mind returned to Fiona, to the information she'd uncovered so far, and how it fit into the family tree. If Fiona had been sent away in late aught-two, then she'd most likely given birth sometime in aught-three, and then spent the next two years at the Asylum, until someone had come and gotten her. But there was no record of a babe born to Fiona O'Shea before Evelyn in aught-six; that was not uncommon, however. It was now being discovered that babes born to Magdelene girls either died not long after birth, or were given away, and birth certificates forged-

 _"'twould no' le' me come 'ome."_

She turned at the voice, startled to find a young girl, no older than fifteen, standing at the bottom of the steps, arms around a growing middle. She wore a dark, long-sleeved dress with a white pinafore over it, her long red hair pulled back and a white cap atop her head, tears sliding down her cheeks. The sight startled Kathleen so much, she had to catch the paintbrush before it fell from her grasp. "F... Fi... _Fiona_?"

The girl swallowed, meeting her gaze. _"Ye belong t' me broth'r, don' ye? An' Zippi? 'tis Kathleen, aye?"_

"I... I'm _no'_..." But after a moment, she stopped, nodding slowly. It was easier than trying to explain the complicated twists of the family tree. Slowly, she knelt down, setting the brush atop the paint can, before taking a seat on the second step. She watched as Fiona- for that's clearly who this was, albeit not the young woman who had helped Zippi through such a difficult birth, but the young girl who yet knew nothing of what fate held in store for her beloved brother- carefully took a seat on the step beside her. She gently caressed her growing belly- about five, maybe six months along, from what Kathleen could figure, though she looked a little bigger than a first-time mother should- sniffling before meeting Kathleen's gaze. " _'e sen' ye_ away, _di'n't 'e? Gran'fath'r_ James, _b'cause ye go'_ pregnant? _Sen' ye_ up _t'_ one _o' th'_ laundries in-"

 _"Belfas'."_ The girl replied softly. _"Begged Da t' le' me marry Eamon, I di'. I love Eamon, an' 'e loves me. Wan's t' marry me, 'e does. Bu' Da sai' no. Sai'... sai' tha'..."_ She struggled to control her sobs, gaze moving to the swell growing beneath her hands. _"tha' I've brough' shame t' th' fam'ly. Tha'... 'twill nev'r be able t' r'turn until I pay f'r me sins..."_ She shook her head. _"'twasn't sin I c'mmitted. twasn't sin; 'twas love. Love."_ She broke down then, wrapping her arms around her middle and lowering her head. Kathleen sat silent, unsure of what to say, letting Fiona's heart-wrenching confession wash over her. She knew what it was like, the fear of facing her parents after having become pregnant out of wedlock.

 _Ye've fac'd it yerself, when ye go' pregnant wit' Timmy. Except Zippi stepp'd in b'fore Ma an' Da coul' do anythin'. An' in tha' way, ye were lucky. Ye avoid'd Fiona's fate._

" _'ow_ long?" Slowly the girl lifted her head, tears still sliding down her cheeks. "At the Asylum? _'ow_ long were _ye_ there? _An' 'ow_ did _ye ge' ou'_?"

Fiona swallowed. _"Three years."_ She shook her head. _"Bu' they took 'em from me righ' aft'r birth."_ It was clear she was ignoring the last question. Slowly, she turned her gaze back to her belly, began stroking it absentmindedly in the way all expectant mothers tended to do.

"It. Took _it_ , _ye_ mean." The girl turned to Kathleen. " _Th'_ babe."

A shake of the head. _"'twas more tha' one."_

Kathleen's eyes widened in shock. _"Twins?"_ Fiona nodded.

 _"Stole me babes from me... gave 'em away..."_ She choked on a sob, reaching up to swipe at her nose, and Kathleen wished desperately that Fiona wasn't a ghost of times past, that she could gather the girl in her arms and ease some of her pain, but she knew that if she tried, she would only succeed in going through her. So she merely sat beside the teenager, listening. _"'ad 'nough time t' name 'em, I did."_ She looked up at Kathleen.

" _Wha'_ are their names?" Kathleen whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. Fiona swallowed, glancing down at her belly as she continued to rub it, before turning her gaze back to the living O'Shea matriarch. Her voice clear and calm for the first time since appearing before Kathleen, she replied,

 _"Aidan Liam an' Margaret Sian."_


	31. Chapter 31

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

Aidan Liam and Margaret Sian.

 _Twins._

Fiona had given birth to _twins_.

Kathleen could barely wrap her head around the information, even as she grabbed the family tree and quickly jotted down the two names before Evelyn and Moira. She quickly did the math in her head, checking the date on the letter-

 _So the twins had been born in aught-three, three years before Evelyn and five before Moira._

She sank into a chair at the table, gaze moving over the family tree. They'd already managed to unravel so much in such a short time, but there was still so much _more_ -

How had Fiona gotten out of the laundry? Where were her twins? Had they survived and been given up for adoption, or died after birth? What happened to Aileen and her family? Had the Spanish flu stolen the lives of that branch of O'Shea tree? And what about Kit, and her supposed son and second marriage? Where did that fit into this?

 _For ev'ry piece ye unravel, ev'n more pops up._

A sigh escaped her, and she dropped the pencil, rubbing a hand over her face with a soft groan. She couldn't handle this right now. She had John's wake to unfortunately look forward to in three days, and then the funeral. _And then yer chil'ren will be goin' 'ome t' Am'rica._

Kathleen wasn't too proud to admit that that was part of the reason she was so distracted; she'd gotten used to, in the last few days, having her children home with her, that the thought of putting them on the plane to go home, tore at her already broken heart. She knew she'd be fine, and that they'd be fine, but the thought of being in this house, alone, with only the ghosts of the past for company-

She sniffled, quickly reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks as the front door opened, and Tim and Sarah came into the house carrying groceries. She quickly moved the tree aside so they could use the table, and stood to help. The kids chattered on about some shop they'd stopped at before coming home, and Kathleen only partially listened, almost robotically putting the groceries away, before Tim's voice pulled her back into reality.

" _'ey Mams?_ " She stopped, letting the fridge door swing shut softly, turning. " _Wha's_ this?" Her gaze lit on the family tree, and she sighed. "Who're... Aidan Liam _an'_ Margaret Sian? _An'... why_ are they _und'r_ Fiona's name on _th'_ tree?"

"Twins." Sarah stopped unpacking the cans of soup she'd grabbed and turned at her mother's soft whisper. Kathleen swallowed against the cotton in her throat. She could feel Fiona's gaze on her, even though she refused to let her own flick to the doorway, where the teenager stood, peeking around the corner. "Fiona _'ad_ twins." She swallowed again, clearing her throat slightly. "At _th' laund'y_. They were taken from _'er_."

She caught the surprised look shared between her children, and after a moment, Tim shook his head. "I... I don't _und'rstand... 'ow d' ye_ kn-"

A shrug; a glimpse towards the doorway. The girl bit her lip, shifting uncomfortably as she leaned against the door frame, watching intently. A moment passed, before Kathleen took a seat at the table. Slowly, the kids joined her, and she reached for the family tree. Tim handed it to her. Her gaze lit towards Fiona again, for she knew now that's who stood at the door frame. " _Ye r'memb'r learnin' 'bout th'_ Church in school, _aye_?"

They shared a glance. " _Aye, bu'... Mams,_ we both _wen' t'_ Catholic-"

"I know, Timothy," His mother interrupted. " _Bu' ye mus' und'rstan'_ , this..." She sighed, briefly thinking of how it could have very well been her own fate, had Zippi not stepped in and John not accepted his responsibility and married her. She thinned her lips, deep in thought, a sigh escaping her.

 _"D' ye und'rstan' exac'ly wha' ye've done t' this family's good name, Kathleen Helen?"_

 _"Shame? Since when is a babe consid'r'd a shame, Da? A babe is a blessin'! Zippi said so!"_

 _She cried out in surprise as her father, the patriarch of the family, grabbed her arm, roughly tugging her up from her chair. The growing bump she'd tried so hard to hide the last three months was now exposed as her shirt rode up, and she heard her mother gasp. Liam Nicholas O'Shea- nay, O'Brien, as he now went by- was a tall, slender man, with rich red hair and striking green eyes. His years as a docker in the ports had made him strong and firm, yet gentle, if he wanted to be. Unlike his grandfather before him, he was content to work the ports; he wanted nothing to do with the stockyard, and had turned down the position when offered._

 _"Oh, Kathleen." She glanced at her mother; Sian Aebh- Eve, as she was called by friends and family- while not as religiously strict as her husband, still saw sex before marriage as a sin, and to now know that one of her beloved daughters had broken that rule... only appropriate action could be taken. A sigh escaped her mother's throat, and she shook her head, setting the beads she'd been clicking softly in prayer down. "'tis n' need f'r pray'rs now. 'twill be up t' God t' d'cide yer punishment."_

 _"A blessin'? A child b'rn o' shame 'tis no blessin', Kathleen!" He tightened his grip, unaware that Moira, home to visit from university, had slipped off to call Zippi. "'tis sin, i' is!"_

 _"Ow! Da, ye're 'urtin' me!" She winced, expecting him to strike her, but he only tightened his grip harder. "'e loves me! 'e's wantin' t' marry me! 'e plan t' ask ye on Sa'urday! I begg'd 'im t' wai' 'til then-"_

 _"Marry?" Her mother's voice broke the argument, and Kathleen turned to glance at her. "Kathleen, that McGee boy is a Protestant-" The word slithered from between her lips like a snake's tongue darting out to test the air; the disdain was evident. "'e may as well be a-" Despite the Troubles raging in the North- the violent conflict currently taking place between Britain and Northern Ireland- and the closed borders that kept the violence from leaking into the free South, it was widely believed- in small pockets of Dublin, anyway- that Protestants were no better than- "an Englishman. Protestants are no' Irish; they spi' on wha' i' means t' be Irish."_

 _And Eve Killarn O'Brien was a good, devout Catholic, with a good, devout Catholic husband. She had birthed four good, devout Catholic daughters, and up until this moment, had believed that nothing- nothing whatsoever- could burst her perfect little bubble. She'd worked so hard on it, for so many years; shaped it and cultivated it, and married the perfect Catholic man, had the perfect Catholic children; she was an upstanding member of the Church- as devout as the Pope himself, that to now be faced with this... horrendous bombshell..._

 _Her gaze flicked to the small curve of her daughter's belly, and she sneered. Her oldest daughter, Fiona, had birthed a healthy boy three years ago; she and her husband had just welcomed their second child last year; that was how things were done- marriage before baby, always. Not the other way around._

 _"Ye will do no such thing!" Her husband's voice broke her thoughts, and she looked up, in time to catch sight of him strike their youngest daughter. "'tis th' conv'nt f'r ye, girl-"_

 _"No, Da, please-" Though devout to her religion she was, no one- no one- struck her children. She stood, moving to step between them, but stopped when the girl turned to her._

 _"'tis th' bes' place f'r ye, Kathleen." The girl shook her head at her mother's response. "Th' sis'ers 'twill g't rid o' i', once it's born-"_

 _"No!" Her daughter's cry drowned her out, but before either could say another word, another voice broke through the tension._

 _"Kathleen is goin' nowhere, Liam. Do ye und'rstan' me?" The three turned as Zippi entered the kitchen, dark eyes blazing in anger. Moira followed behind. "Ye may be th' las' survivin' patriarch o' th' O'Shea's, since yer da passed, God rest 'is soul, bu' I 'ave th' las' say in th' family." Kathleen felt her father's grip loosen, as the matriarch of the O'Shea family strode towards her father. Still as spry as fresh Irish moss, despite her eighty-five years, Zipporah O'Shea, upon taking Moira's frantic phone call while out for dinner with friends, knew she couldn't let her granddaughter befall the same fate her sister-in-law had._

 _Kathleen met her grandmother's eyes; her parents were fairly relaxed about things- more than most parents in Dublin,_ except _when it came to religion and sex before marriage. She'd been meant to wait until her wedding night, but one long, lazy evening at that Arts Festival nearly four months ago with John McGee- a boy from Belfast who'd managed to get approval from the guards at the border to come down for it- had stripped her of her purity and left her pregnant with his child. "D' I make meself clear, Liam Nicholas O'Shea?"_

 _Both girls started; they hadn't heard O'Shea in years. Da forbid them from using it; they were O'Briens. Liam finally released his daughter, and Eva pulled her child away, but Kathleen shook her head, rushing towards Zippi, who embraced her granddaughter and then pushed her towards her sister. "Answ'r me, Liam!"_

 _Several tense, awkward moments passed, before he finally ground out, "Aye, Zippi." She nodded, turning to check on Kathleen when he spoke up again. "'tis a harlo', my daught'r. She des'rves th' laund'y, f'r th' sin she's committ'd."_

 _A gasp rang out, and both girls looked up as their father cradled his cheek, for Zippi had quickly and fiercely struck him in retaliation. "'ow dare ye call me grandaugh'r such a thin'! "_ _Tá leanbh shamed níos fearr ná leanbh naofa!_ _Shame, on both o' ye! "_

 _Kathleen knew the old Irish her grandmother spoke, A shamed child is better than a holy one- it spoke of removing oneself from the religion long enough to see that all were precious in God's eyes, but that the shame might be a bit more, because they came from a place of heartache. She looked up as Zippi turned, making her way towards them. Her dark gaze roved down her granddaughter, and she sighed, doing the math quickly._

 _The babe would be born in September, and Kathleen was already nearing the end of her first trimester. She was just beginning to show, for the swell of her tummy was there, now that she was not trying to hide it; it was best if they married before it became too obvious. A small, intimate wedding ceremony in a month's time would keep the tongues of Dublin from wagging, give the boy enough time to convert, and give a convenient cover to her granddaughter's thickening midsection._ _Unlike most Catholics, Zipporah O'Shea preferred the simple things in life; a good bowl of hearty Irish stew, a pint of cold Guinness or a shot of warm whiskey in a rocks glass, the warmest of Aran sweaters on a windy day... a simple wedding was no different. If she'd had her way, her own wedding back in nineteen-ten would have been small and simple, surrounded by family and close friends. She gently reached up to caress Kathleen's cheek._

 _The girl met her gaze, even as the old woman's other hand moved down to press gently against her belly. "T'morrow, we'll speak to the priest, and find yer dress. Something tha' canna hide th' swell tha' will be visible a' th' end o' th' month. 'tis no' th' firs' O'Shea bride t' marry wit' chil', an' twon' be th' las'."_

 _Yes, Zippi would make sure she saved her beloved granddaughter from the laundries._

" _Mams_? Are _ye_ okay?" Kathleen met her son's gaze across the table. The young man sitting before her had very nearly sentenced her to Fiona's fate, merely by growing within her. She smiled softly at him.

" _Aye_ , love." She sighed. The laundries, the shame of Ireland, could wait for another day, for she didn't have the strength to explain it now. _"Jus'... los' ina mem'ry."_ The boy nodded, returning to finish unpacking the groceries. Kathleen watched him, silent, involuntarily reaching up to caress her cheek.

Yes, the boy had nearly sentenced her to a life of servitude and an early grave. But, if she were honest with herself, he had also saved her, not just from religious indentured servitude, but from a life that had been growing unbearable.


	32. Chapter 32

**Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia**

The sun danced through the window, warming the blankets of the bed. Tim sighed, tossing his light jacket on the back of his chair and taking a seat on the bed. The furniture for both his and Sarah's rooms had arrived that morning, and they'd spent it putting both together and making the rooms feel a little more... adult.

" _'bout_ time _ye_ both _'ad_ grown up beds." Mams had joked, and the siblings had taken it all in stride. They loved Kathleen deeply, and were grateful to be back home. He lay back against the pillow, the sun splashing across his face. He tucked his arms beneath his head, sighing.

 _Home._

America. Silver Spring. The place where his job and his house and his life and... Ziva... were waiting. _That_ was supposed to be home. Not Dublin, and _certainly_ not Ireland. Ireland was his birthplace, it wasn't supposed to be his home, even though he'd spent his early, formative years watching the violence in the North from the safety of the house in the South. Unlike many Irish, his parents hadn't fled the Troubles- by the time he'd been born, they'd been married five months, and _Da_ \- born and raised in Belfast, in the heart of the conflict- had converted to Catholicism and left the North. Though his parents, brother and sister were still in Belfast, _Da_ had been safe, now married with a baby.

Uncle Matthew and _Aintin_ Orla. Tim's memories of his father's siblings were few and far between. It wasn't until the Good Friday Agreement was reached in ninety-eight that those from the North could move freely into the South without being stopped and searched at checkpoint. He'd been ten, and Sarah eight, when _Mams_ and _Da_ had decided it was best to flee the country for America. By then, _Da_ had been working with the Navy, tensions in the North had continued to rise, the very real fear that the violence would spill into the South was palpable, and...

He sighed, rubbing his face. And by then, Zippi had been cold in her grave three years, and his parents finally felt it was safe to flee. Though it had near killed _Mams_ , they'd fled, keeping the house in their name and making for America, where they'd be safe. It had been hard, the first few months; _Mams_ had had a difficult time adjusting to being a military wife, what with her blunt, outspoken nature and tendency to do what she wanted, often disregarding the unspoken protocol among the military wives, but eventually, the family had fallen into a routine, and soon, things had eased and they'd settled in. And for the last few years, it had been fine, being in America, but Ireland had always called to him- to both of them- and he'd longed to return; they all had, for Ireland was in their very souls. It was in every beat of their hearts, as _Mams_ recalled Zippi saying.

Even _Da_ , in his last months, weeks, and days as he battled cancer, had desired to set foot in their homeland one last time before he left his family for good. _"I wish to see our rolling green hills, to smell and taste the sweet, salty Belfast sea air, to walk the streets of Dublin again... one last time, with my family..."_

Slowly, he turned his head, letting the warmth of the sun splash across his face. Da had never gotten his wish; the cancer had stolen him away before they returned, and it had been up to Mams to arrange for his return; because even though he'd served in the American Navy, he was and Irishman born, and an Irishman died, and he wished to be buried within the earth of their home country. And the Navy- to everyone's surprise- had agreed, preparing a full transport back to Ireland for Kathleen and the kids.

No matter Tim's feelings on the matter, he had to admit, that in this instance, America had done right. Now if only Ireland would do right by Timothy Michael... Eventually, the warmth of the sun lulled him to sleep.

 _"Now ye list'n t' me, Timothy Michael. 'tis no' matt'r wha' oth'rs say. We's a prou' Irish, we is. F'r she beats in our v'ry 'earts an' souls. We are Éireann, jus' as she is us. Nev'r f'rget where ye come fr'm. Okay, lad?"_

 _"Aye, Da."_

 _John brushed a kiss to his son's head. It had been another day of the boy coming home from school in tears, because the other children at the American school not far from the base they lived on, had picked on him- poking fun at his red hair and green eyes, the thickness of his accent and the splash of freckles across the right side of his face- for not a single freckle appeared on the left side- simply because he was different. He was the only child in the long, twisted tree that was joined by his marriage to Kathleen, that possessed freckles that only covered one side of his face. An anomaly, certainly, but only considered one by those not within the family. And as he grew, John knew that the freckles would appear more and more, especially with the increasing amount of time the boy spent in the sun, and he wished for his son to know that they were beautiful, and something meant to be treasured._

 _"Yer freckles are t' r'mind ye o' where ye come fr'm, as much as yer eyes an' hair. Nev'r feel asham'd o' 'em. Okay?" The boy nodded again, and John smiled, kissing the boy again before standing. As he rushed off to play with his sister, his father turned, feeling his wife's arms slide around him from behind. Kathleen said nothing, just pressed a kiss to his shoulder, the meaning clear._

The young man jolted awake; hours had passed and darkness had started to fall. As he ran a hand through his hair, he turned; someone was watching him. _Probably Mams or Sarah, makin' sure I'm alright._

 _"Ye don' 'ave t' 'over ov'r_ me. I'm fine, I _pr'mise. 'twas jus'_ a... _jus'..._ " He stopped, realizing what exactly it was. _"Jus' a mem'ry."_

 _"'twill always watch ov'r ye, Timothy. Ye're family, an O'Shea, an' O'Shea's look aft'r their own."_

Tim sighed, sitting up and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know, _Da_ -"

The person chuckled, taking a sea on the edge, across from him. _"Da? I'm no' yer Da, young one, though,"_ They tilted their head back and forth, choosing their words carefully. _"we are rela'ed. Me bel'ved Zippi spends mos' o' 'er time watchin' ov'r ye, an' I fig'r'd I'd give 'er a chance t' rest. Been lookin' ov'r this 'ouse f'r so long, she 'as, tha' she des'rves some time off. B'sides, 'tis only righ' I step in. 'tis my 'ouse, aft'r all. I am the 'ead o' this fam'ly."_

Zippi, right. Wait... _Zippi?_ Tim's head snapped up.

The person who sat before him, he'd only ever seen in old, fading photographs, forever frozen in time. The man was young- around Tim's age, perhaps a little younger- with the same red hair, and pale skin. Dressed in a nice three-piece leisure suit of brown Donegal tweed, white dress shirt, waistcoat and all, a flat cap on his head that just slightly hid his green eyes from view, he looked as though he'd stepped from the pages of an old nineteen-twenties magazine. An unlit cigarette dangled between his lips, and Tim could see the flash of a wedding band on his finger.

Tim swallowed the lump in throat. Head of the family? No, that wasn't right. _Mams_ was the head of it, what with _Da_ now gone, and Zippi dead now some twenty-years, unless- "I... _I'ma s'rry, bu'_... I _don'_ know _ye_ -"

The man chuckled softly, lifting his head, and Tim's heart constricted. _"O' course ye don' know me. Been dead near three qua'ers a cent'ry 'afore ye came 'long._ _Thanks be t' me bel'ved Zippi f'r savin' yer Ma fr'm th' same fate as me sis'er, Fiona, bless 'er soul. Bu' ye's don' know tha', d' ye?"_ The agent swallowed, afraid to answer. He was too caught up in the man before him, and with good reason.

He looked to be the spitting image of Tim himself, but what unnerved the young agent the most, was the man's face. It wasn't just the eyes, skin and features that unnerved Tim. It was the man's freckles. The man grinned; it was a mirror image of his own. The cigarette continued to dangle from between his lips, but he made no move to touch it. And all across his face, were freckles; hundreds, and _hundreds_ of freckles.

That _only_ covered the right side of his face.

Tim for years, had, as had everyone else, believed he was the _only_ one in the family to have this very distinct birthmark, but clearly he was wrong. A moment passed, before the man finally removed the cigarette from his lips and spoke,

 _"Wha's a matt'r, lad? Don' ye know 'tis no' polite t' stare at th' patriarch o' th' O'Shea fam'ly? Ain't ye ev'r seen yer great-great-gran'fath'r b'fore?"_


End file.
